


temples of bell heather and sweat-soaked sheets

by Ghostigos



Series: se corri con lupi [3]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Gang Violence, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mafia AU, Major Character Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: To help him feel better, you reach out to lock hands with your good hand, which he takes without hesitation. You're grateful to have him; even if he coddles you a lot as of late you know it's because he's worried. Andyoumade him this worried in the first place.So if your penance is to be babied incessantly as you hobble down the steps with the posture of a cooked, dying grandpa, then it's something you'll have to accept.Alt: In which Moomin takes some time to recover after a bad month
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll & Lilla My | Little My, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Series: se corri con lupi [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1509368
Comments: 29
Kudos: 57





	1. the dawn you see faintly is cut

**Author's Note:**

> ( _everything sharp is wrapped up_ — i found the rooms between the violence of comets)
> 
> you absolutely 100% should not be here if you haven't read the [first fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20246923) in this series

If this crushing new weight on your ribcage hadn't woken you up, your common morning tremors would have sufficed; your internal clock has been wonky since your return anyways so it wouldn't have been long before your body found another excuse to spring out of the covers.

Anyhow, the pressure along your stomach shifts a little hand prods at the tender in your cheek. Upon your crude awakening you give a groan and force a gritty eye open, blinking into the room.

Tiny figures are smudged in your sleepy vision, but you can still recognize them both as children: one ginger and one blonde. You have to reach a lazy hand up to squeeze at your face before you can see them clearly — you're awful with names but sometimes faces stick — and when you can properly identify them as some daily troublemakers within the household you give a half-assed glare to the boy.

His fingers are still hovering over your face, ready to poke you again. He instead turns to his accomplice. "See? I told you he wasn't dead."

The girl raises her brows in a silent question; he shrugs. "I'unno, they said not to bother him but he seems fine to me." Then he looks back over to you, his hand perched on his chest to propel himself forward and your vision is stuffed with red hair and your nostrils with the smell of bubblegum toothpaste. "Hey mister, you drool in your sleep."

Grumpily you attempt to shrug him off but to no avail, his fingers just claw into your upper chest region and the pinches of pain provide more irritation to course through your veins. You throw an arm over your eyes. "Good to know," you mutter.

Mind, the aches _are_ getting better; the boy on your chest and the girl on your lower shins are hardly anything more than gentle compression, which is a tad suffocating if you consider it, but you're not that bad today — not yet, anyway. You and Snufkin both had to learn that you can’t handle surmounted weight in panic spells, but right now it's grounding. However grimy their buggy little hands are.

Then the boy flops over to your left and accidentally tumbles onto your left arm.

Oh, there it is.

Like metal sears being pressed into your flesh, huge spikes of pain leave you gasping and strained and now very much awake. You're forceful without meaning to be as you fling the kids to Snufkin's side of the bed —which is, thankfully and unfortunately, barren. You cradle the arm in question with your other hand, wincing through teeth.

Tears brew beneath your eyes — your body has felt like a big bruise these past weeks. Everyone has had to learn to be gentle with you; you, this formerly-untouchable bastion that could survive a good gut punch. Also a big fat _idiot_.

"M'sorry mister," the boys says, pouting a lip. Granted, he's a _cute_ lad, but also an unruly one. Much like his other siblings.

You curl your left fingers, relishing in the soreness that slides down the constricted bone; it still hurts, but you'll live. Rationality surfaces as the pain ebbs. You sigh, "It's fine, you didn't mean to."

"Fractured radius!"

"Huh?"

"Miss Kukkah said that was what was wrong with your arm," he explains, pointing at your cast. "Fractured radius. That's like, your wrist I think?" He glances back over to the girl. "It's the wrist, right?"

She shrugs.

"I know this is the humerus," he goes on, drawing a forefinger to right below his shoulder. "The name is funny so that's how I remember it."

"Okay." You settle back into the pillows, an air of grouchiness forming in your brain like early stormclouds.

"One time I sprained my ankle surfing down the stairs in a laundry basket. I didn't have to wear a big cast like you, though—"

" _Thistle! Clover!_ I told you two to leave Moomin _be!_ "

You suppress the sigh of relief that comes from hearing his voice in the hallway; the smile that bows into your lips is very easy to wear, though.

Both kids turn their heads as Snufkin storms into the room, his hands on his hips and looking fairly cross. "Honestly, must I attach you both to _leashes?_ ," he huffs. "I thought you were with your siblings."

"We were!" the boy protests — ah yes, that one is Thistle, you remember now — "but we got 'stracted."

"Moomin needs his rest," Snufkin says, walking over and gesturing the kids off the bed like they're delinquent puppies. "Now shoo! Out! Go help with breakfast or I'll tell Kukkah you've been misbehaving and you'll get no dessert!"

Immediately they both tumble onto the floor, writhing in mischief, and Thistle grabs Clover's hand to beeline out the door. Their footsteps thunder across the hallway and down the stairwell.

"I swear, the _nerve!_ " Snufkin sighs again as he watches them leave. He glances over, looking apologetic. "I'm so sorry, Moomin. I assumed they were helping the other children with chores so I hadn't bothered to check for them."

"It's...fine," you murmur. You cover your mouth and yawn, which seems to disappoint your partner.

He hops on the bed to kneel at your side. "Bad night?"

You shake your head. "I can't recall. I don't try to recall, I guess — makes me feel worse in the morning."

Snufkin's expression gives way for soft concern; he leans in to press a set of fingers into your ribs, and although it's unexpected nowadays you still retract, due to being rather ticklish around that area.

"C-come on! I thought we already—"

"You know I have to," Snufkin protests. "I'd be anxious if I didn't."

"I think by now we'd know if anything else were broken—"

"Just let me check," he says, tone dipping into something stern, or perhaps desperate. "Please."

You frown, but ultimately you allow him to monitor your status anyway. Although none of you are medical professionals by any means (and cannot afford to see one), you're certain that if they'd managed to crack any ribs it'd be harder to breathe or move. Still, Snufkin takes his precautions seriously just because the first few days you were conscious you'd complained about the bruises painting your torso purple. Too-Ticky had also expressed fears of internal damage, unseen from the surface, which just further veered your partner into worst-case anxieties. Safe to say nobody was encouraged at your conditions; you allow them to fret because you've done them enough harm.

The first days in which you were rescued are jagged and tough to consider — you remember a _lot_ of disconnected pain and sleeping very often. Lots of nightmares too; if you were touched you'd fold in like you could make yourself small enough to grow nonexistent. You remember fingers scratching into your temples and a dispatched heartbeat that throbbed in everything but your chest. Although, those moments are blotted out in angry black, much too fragile to inspect should you choose to delve deeper into what happened. Into what you felt when you were dragged out of the storage facility you'd been imprisoned in, for gods knows how long.

Another constant in these memories was a small figure, unfamiliar for a while but you let him sob into your tattered shirt for as long as he needed. Slowly you granted him more recognition because when you woke in fits he was there, clutching your hand, kissing your forehead.

He kept whispering, " _I love you too,_ " He said it like he'd never get to say it again, every single time.

Snufkin retracts his hand; you're wandering aimless so you hadn't noticed him now straddling your lap to reach over and compare your left ribs to your right, checking for swelling. He gives the all-clear a long minute later.

Then, he leans forward to rest his chin atop your chest, looking up at you warmly. His arms hang over your sides, docile and harmless.

A soft minute like this deserves some sort of morning makeout, maybe, in a different context. But a pang of realization strikes and you make to adjust yourself upwards. "I thought I was supposed to be helping with breakfast this morning?"

"I helped instead, " Snufkin says. "You've been having some harsh nights and I wanted to make sure to got some sleep."

"I could've done it."

"Yes, you say that." He dares to roll his eyes — it's a little vexing, but it's from a place of care, surely. "I didn't realize it was a crime to take care of you."

"It isn't, but," you look away, masking your knitting brows as best you can, in hopes that Snufkin won't comment, "it's been weeks now, and I can _walk_ and...be useful, in little ways maybe. I know this," you gesture to your cast, "is a little offputting, but I _can_ help."

Snufkin hauls himself up to your nose, then presses a lazy kiss to your forehead. There's a smile that perks the kiss; a flood of love rushes forth and you can almost discard your irritations.

"Give yourself some time," he murmurs into your hair, "you'll get better and then you can help as much as you want, but until then I'm more than happy to give you whatever you need."

He parts before you can protest, carefully picking himself off your stomach and lap. "I’ll go get your breakfast. Eggs and toast, correct?"

"I can go down!" In a new wave of motivation you haul yourself off the sheets, minding your arm and raw abdomen. You can see the effort it takes you to get up has Snufkin displeased, but you forsake that for being resolute. "I'll get it myself, I'll be alright. That way I— we can eat together."

He stares you down a moment, before he turns and says with great effort, "Very well."

To help him feel better, you reach out to lock hands with your good hand, which he takes without hesitation. You're grateful to have him; even if he coddles you a lot as of late you know it's because he's worried. And _you_ made him this worried in the first place.

So if your penance is to be babied incessantly as you hobble down the steps with the posture of a cooked, dying grandpa, then it's something you'll have to accept.

-

The children are all up and running about by the time you reach the elongated dining table; some are still setting up the plates and napkins like busy little housekeepers, chattering amongst themselves excitedly. But they seem to have a system going, even if from your outsider's perspective it looks chaotic; it'd be wrong to intrude.

As you wait for today's kitchen dwellers to come serve the food, you take your seat with Snufkin's assistance, and his hand won't leave yours as he settles next to you.

One of the kids stops placing down utensils (you're tempted to tell her that the spoon goes after the knife and not before, but whatever) and turns to Snufkin with an eager grin. "Good morning, Snufkin!"

He nods. "Good morning, Juniper." Then he leans over to view her work. "Oh, the spoons aren't supposed to go before the knives."

She looks dismayed. "They don't?"

(See, no use speaking up. Someone else can handle it.)

Snufkin releases your hand only a second to point out specifically, "Yes, and the knife is supposed to be facing the other direction, towards the plate. It's an easy mistake, don't fret over it."

Another child raises their hand to grab your attentions from across the way. "Snufkin, do I have the glass on the right side of the plate?"

"Yes, right side is correct, Linden!" Snufkin calls back. "Good on you for remembering."

Linden beams at the praise, then follows suit with Juniper to append their mistakes.

You grin at your partner with a swell of pride. "They seem to like you a lot."

Snufkin seems surprised when you comment this, then mellows with a considerate nod. His gaze trails back down to your hands linked together once more, idle. "They're clingy ones indeed, all I did was gather them up for a story and now I can't seem to get rid of them." Then his eyes harden, glaring downwards. "They crave the attention so desperately, like it's all they have left to receive. Like they're...interchangable."

Well, when he puts it like that. You look back over to the flock of kids babbling and further inspect their body language, finding patterns in hunched shoulders, tapping toes, and flicking gazes.

You were still hazy from medications when you were given a run-down of this home: these children are all victims of disasters that have left them homeless — most being acts of terrorism or...gang violence, wherein they cannot and should not return to wherever they came. Of recent years some children have just been dropped at the doorsteps with impoverished parents suffering from the unequal wealth balance between the countries, clinging to whatever shred of hope possible for their babies to live. This home is a haven for these poor kids, cast out and overlooked by the country divided by the have's and have-not's. No wonder they reach for any extended hands.

The runner of this foster care — and self-proclaimed mother of the children, Kukkah — had been retold your tales in the plea bargain for shelter, and Too-Ticky recounted to you how a lightbulb seemed to flash over her head at your father's mention. Immediately she extended her hospitalities and now here you are recouping. You think there's a backstory there, with Kukkah and your father, that you'd like to dissect out of the earshot of Snufkin or anybody else; obviously this area has notorious gang activities afoot so you're curious how far back those connections of the Oshun Oxtra can run, if they intertwined at all.

Breakfast arrives a few moments later, handed out by the kids with the help of Too-Ticky and Little My (the former greets you with a wink, the latter purposely bumps into your chair), and soon everyone is settled into the respective chairs and waiting for the orders to dig in.

Little My plops herself next to you, having pocketed a biscuit even though you shouldn't be eating yet. "Look who's been ungrounded from his room and decided to join us," she greets you; her tone holds the same amount of accusation as ever.

"Good morning, My."

She scoffs. "Has the warden let you out today for good behavior?"

"My," Snufkin warns from your right; his jaw's grown hardlined.

"Just saying, you hardly come out anymore." She scarves down the biscuit at the expense of all the hungry onlookers. "I mean, I get that you've been, like, tortured—"

"That's _enough_ ," Snufkin snaps. "Moomin wanted to come downstairs and now you're just going to frighten him away."

"Doesn't seem frightened to me," she shrugs, "Just kind of...not there."

 _Am I?_ If you had started drifting you haven't noticed until now; like an overstuffed balloon you trail aimlessly overhead. Your fingers have curled into the fabric of your pajama bottoms — everyone else is full-dressed but you take so long to get ready now that you're granted some leisure. You breathe, release your hold, deliberately unravel your muscles.

Snufkin's hand squeezes your own; he's scooted his chair in a way so he can position his head atop your shoulder, looking up at you. "Are you going to be alright?" he murmurs gently.

You don't like how far away his voice sounds, even when he's pressed next to you.

You'd comply in his worries, maybe, but you're so tired of being boarded away from the others — here you could prove that you're not just some paranoid lug that broods in his room all day, useless and handicapped.

So you rally with another long breath, squeezing back in reassurance. "I'll be okay," you say, with a smile that's too pointed and leaves your face too easily.

Before either of your accomplices can remark, the kitchen doors open and the kids bounce in their seats when they see that their mother has come at last.

You first met Kukkah when she came in and stood over your bedside, sternly gazing upon your condition; you were nestled into a bed much smaller than you have now, because it was too cumbersome to hoist you upstairs. She's a sharp woman, all edges, contrasting the messy, round-faced children often clinging to her backside or holding her hands. You suppose she'd _have_ to be well-kept to maintain this house all by herself (minus her maid/girlfriend, of course).

Kukkah's brunette hair is tied into a loose bun that sways as she makes a grand sweep to seat herself. She eyes the food and decides to be pleased with it, and then her eyes cross to where you're sitting. She narrows a brow.

"Kind of you to join us," she says, tone unwavering and poised; you can't tell if she's making herself out to be sarcastic or formal or both or neither. "I'm sure you know that you were supposed to be coming down this morning to help with breakfast, but your boyfriend has already elected to do your kitchen chores for the week."

 _The whole week?_ That's certainly a long time to be useless. Peering down at your empty plate, you manage a nod. "Ah, yes, I'm aware."

"So, I've moved you to dusting and laundry with Nessie," Kukkah continues. "If you're feeling up to the task I'd appreciate you doing some heavier work around the house eventually."

You perk up, surprised. Before you can manage anything, Snufkin intervenes heatedly, "That wasn't in our deal!"

You look up in time to see Kukkah's gaze flit over to Snufkin, who's straightened up in his chair and long since detached himself from your shoulder and hand. Her expression narrows. "We carry no dead weight around the Home. I've given Moomin enough time to recover and he seems to be doing better. So if you and your friends would like to stay with us — _free of charge_ , might I add — then I expect you _all_ to hold up your ends of the bargain."

Snufkin makes to argue more — he's practically bristling in place, and if he had fur you think it'd be up on all ends — but he sinks backwards into a cold silence.

"Yeesh," Little My mutters into your ear. "I bet you a quarter that he gets kicked out by the end of this week."

"Don't be mean," you whisper back. Although you don't see why Snufkin got so up in arms, you can't stop the lightened opening in your chest that comes from being given _something_ to do. It's a remarkable feeling, akin to clearing out gutters after rainfall. It's odd that Snufkin doesn't share in these delights — it can be like before again, soon, back to...well, not _normal_ , but still some place better than where you are now.

Finally Kukkah gives the approval to begin the feast, and the table becomes a war-zone that you haven't exactly missed with your breakfasts in bed. You wait to lift a finger as to not intervene with the children's grabby hands — you'd probably lose a limb at this rate — and when the chaos cools down a bit you reach for some eggs and French toast. Too-Ticky passes the jam upon request and one of the kids (named Rose, you _think??_ ) pours some orange juice into your glass, since you're a bit shabby in performing that action yourself.

The table eventually quietens as everyone munches on their respective meals. Snufkin helps you cut up your toast how you like, then spreads the jam. Thanking him, you begin to eat in small portions, as to not upset your stomach.

This is a routine that you haven't the chance to bask in for a while: sitting down at the table in your pajamas, Mamma using all the leftover jam before she makes more as to not waste the mason jars, her laughing when the peach preserves would smear across your face. She'd wipe your face with a wet cloth even when you insisted you were not a _child_ , but she hummed that you'd always be her child, and kiss your cheek.

And Pappa comes downstairs already dressed for the day, bending slightly to kiss Mamma, and he sits across from you to read the newspaper. A tune would play from the old radio in the kitchen, and you wonder if Sniff would come over today, or maybe Snorkmaiden, and it's all so incredibly mundane that you wished to flee from it all, once.

The grip on your fork tightens until it hurts and your movements slow. You're staring so hard at your plate that it'd probably shrivel up if able.

"Moomin?" One of your friends speaks, you aren't sure which, but you look over at Snufkin first. Obviously he's concerned. He asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"

You nod stiffly, "Yeah, just..."

"If you aren't going to finish your food, can I have it?" Little My asks; you turn to her and cock an unamused brow, seeing that her plate is stuffed with enough food to last her the entire day. She hovers over it defensively like she expects an attack on her precious game.

"Bit of an over-achiever, are we?" you comment.

She just chuckles. "Survival of the fittest, dear Moomin! Your 'only child' customs wouldn't fully understand, but me?" She points a thumb to her chest, slightly puffed. "I've been a veteran of Mymble Dinners for twenty-eight years and counting! They'll see that my legendary ventures will be engraved one day."

"If you're to be remembered as nothing but a food hoarder, then that'd be a pretty sad epitaph," you tease.

"Say what you will," Little My says, jabbing her fork into one of the many eggs on her plate, "but you'll never find me starving."

"Aren't we lucky."

"Moomin," Snufkin interrupts and you draw your attention back to him, "if you can't eat anymore, that's fine. I can tell them you were under the weather and they'd forgive the leftovers."

You look down at your food, as though to calculate, and ultimately shake your head. "No, it's alright. I'm not feeling sick, I'm just...adjusting, I guess. No cause for alarm, though."

Snufkin considers, then nods. "If you insist."

He returns to eating; but in newfound deviltry you take your jam-crusted knife from the edge of your dish and reach over to smear the strawberry flavor across Snufkin's nose. He recoils a moment with widened eyes, looking at you oddly.

"Oh goodness," you sigh in mock dismay, "you've gotten jam all on your face! Here."

You lean forward, cheekily, and press a kiss to the tip of his nose. You're grinning when you have to lick some of the gooey texture off with your tongue, and when you pull back Snufkin's face is _burning_ and a cheerful declaration of your actions. He opens his mouth to say something, but only a small breath comes out.

With your partner now stiff and flustered, you chew on your toast again with a little smirk. One of the kids yells, "Awww!" as Little My and Kukkah scowl. Too-Ticky covers her smile with her hand.

And so life continues.

-

Although the children' clothes are stockpiled fairly high in the basket, you can fold a decent amount within the hour, broken arm be damned. Time passes and you eventually bring a hand to your hips, admiring the work of shirts and jeans all smoothed out, with the scent of flowers emanating from the pile.

From behind, your chore buddy drops a massive object and your thoughts explode into senseless panic as you whirl around to face her. It was just a gallon of laundry detergent, but you spread your fingers across your upper breastbone and give yourself a couple of steady pants.

"Oh dear! I'm so sorry!" Nessie hurriedly sets the bottle back on its proper shelf and makes like she'll put a hand on your shoulder, but refrains. "Are you...are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you like that."

"No no, it's," you sigh a little. "It's fine, really. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so jumpy."

"It's alright," she says softly, with a smile to accompany. Her eyes aren't pooling in any sort of syrupy pity you don't want, which is refreshing, but she still appears hesitant. "I won't send you off to your room or anything, we still have quite the stack to go through."

You try to chuckle. "Messy little beasts, aren't they?"

"One thing you must know about our Woodies," Nessie smiles wider, "is that they're all quite the troublemakers. I consider this pile a _good_ day."

You both return to work in a relative solace, the only ambience being the thumping of the washer and dryers. Since you're in the basement, there's hardly any child shrieks you could mistake for a fellow inmate scream, or any loud thuds for something heavy being pounded against your door to wake you. Just the distant pattering of cheerful footsteps, which are hardly enough to be scary.

Nessie turns on a radio you hadn't noticed being on the counter; she says that the extended silence leaves her a bit uneasy. A song wafts through the air with a rhythm that has your shoes tapping, and Nessie swaying her hips a little. Sometimes one of you will hum.

"If I can ask, because I don't remember the answer," you say after a while, "why exactly are all the children named after...well, nature? Iris, Clover, Birch...surely they didn't all happen to coincidentally have similar names?"

Nessie lightly chuckles, her nimble hands unceasing as she folds in a dress. "No, Kukkah was the one who suggested that the children all be named like that."

"Why so?"

"She's a gardener," she explains, "and it seemed...fitting. So, whenever one of the Woodies is ready to decide, we bring out a collection of books about gardening and trees and alike, and we let them take all the time they need — it's a big decision, after all! But once they've pointed out to us what they'd like to be called," she sighs dreamily, happily, "there's such a _change_ in them. As though they can discard their old lives and begin their new one. They couldn't choose what happened to them then, but they can choose now, in the little things."

You smile a little. But it curbs a bit when you press, "Has there been any child — Woodie — that _doesn't_ want to change their name?"

Nessie's hand stalls — you can't see her face as her frazzled black hair now behaves as curtains. "Unfortunately they don't have much of a choice. Because of their circumstances, we _must_ keep their true identities hidden. They're under protection, and there are some legal liberties to be taken, but they _can't_ stay the same child lest they be found or dragged back into whatever disaster they fled from."

She continues folding the next batch of shirts in a slower pace, thoughtful. "I wish I could tell you the specifics on what our children have gone through, but really I never cared much about that. All that matters to me is that they're here and they're safe and loved. Like you," she tacks on. "I'm curious to what's happened, but...if you're like the others and don't want to talk about it yet, then the least I can do is give you a place to rest for now."

"I appreciate that," you manage. "Thank you."

She hums. "Stay as long as you need, Moomin. Your friends, too. Just clean up after yourselves or Kukkah will have a fit."

"I don't think you have to worry," you say. "We're all used to dealing with our messes."

She doesn't laugh like you wanted, but your impression of her is pleasantly upheld by the kind look she flicks over her shoulder.

The quiet returns; the songs have curbed into advertisements so there's nothing to dance to. It gnaws at you a little, standing in place with nothing to do but fold socks and contemplate.

In a quiet voice you muster: "I was...imprisoned. And...some people did...bad things, to me."

You don't look to see if Nessie's made a big show of looking shocked or sorry for you. You can't make yourself to move or talk, even, until you receive some form of recognition for what you've admitted to.

Finally, gentle: "Thank you for telling me, Moomin."

'You're welcome' doesn't sound right, so you don't say anything but nod and hope that she sees it.

Eventually the washing machines become bad company again, and Nessie turns the dial to a channel that's playing an upbeat tune you recognize, because Snorkmaiden would often blast it from her bedroom. When you notice your fingers shaking, you request that the station be changed again.

-

To say that quote-unquote 'bad people did bad things' feels like a disgusting understatement of what truly happened. 'Bad things' is getting pushed on the playground, or breaking up with your girlfriend, or getting sick from bad fish and spending the weekend bedridden.

Even now, stepping back, you can't identify what it all was. To deem it traumatizing, well...you're not sure, you think it's too early to tell. But no word can come to mind that capsulizes how you feel about it all.

But your dreams and solitude thoughts suggest this: a great ache that's rooted itself into yourself and writhed into open nerves. A something awful that makes your bones tremble if a loud slam is heard and you curl up, expecting a blow. Because there were _so many blows._

Whatever you wanted from them and them from you, there was nothing rewarding from either party and so you were all frustrated. It started small, meaningful as to get the most out of you, and then it escalated. They kept digging their filthy fingers into your shirt; your flannel was ripped and at the time you'd cried about it but that became the least of your worries. Butchered like carved meat, like livestock in slaughter, kept alive for _gods_ knows what. Your world being compressed into empty walls and brutal noises. You'd forgotten if the pain ever ended. You'd already forgotten when it started.

You vomit out these swirling concoctions of everything — metaphorically and literally — and you're probably a big downer because of it. In lieu of proper words you give howls; these whirlwinds of fear and badness unceasing even when Snufkin's pressed himself against your back or curled into your lap, tracing circles along your skin with a finger, like you'd once done. And it _sucks_. It all sucks because you're supposed to be big and strong and happy, but now you're just...not.

You're not _anything_ , save for a disappointment. You've gone and thrown yourself into open flames like it'd stop some perpetually-whirring machine that's been moving since before you were born. Like they'd give you answers for your efforts, or _something_. You don't remember; you just remember being very foolish and very naive and expecting the best.

Whatever you originally set out to do, you failed. You couldn't protect anybody, and you can't go home to mope about it all. The least you can do is shake the sand off your boots and keep going, and you can't even do that.

And Snufkin's help _is_ appreciated — he serves as your hand and brain and everything else; an anchor in a swaying storm. You don't know where you'd be (or _who_ you'd be) without him.

It's night; you cough up the last bits of bile clogging up your throat. More often than not are you crouched over a toilet sobbing your dinner out of your stomach. And Snufkin is there, always; even when you can't experience anything outside of your pounding body and the nightmares hammering clips of their echo throughout your hindbrain, he's there and you feel him. You feel his fingers trail along your bent spine, his breath against your neck as he whispers nothing helpful but still valuable.

You sink back into his arms once your gut is a withered husk; there's a lot of you he has to take in but somehow it always works with his legs fencing your sides and his arms locking around your neck. He looks down and your noses touch, then he leans further down until more skin is pressed together and you can feel nothing _but_ Snufkin.

"I can't sleep," you croak, and laugh — because _duh_. But it's still words and that's good, talking is progress.

His hands reunite where your locket once sat — before they tore it away so you wouldn't hang yourself with it. Under your erratic pulse his is calm and slowed.

"I'll be here as long as you'd like," Snufkin says; his mouth is muffled by where he's settled into your hair. "For as long as you need me."

"I always need you," you say, truthfully.

"Then I'll always be here." His arms encircle you tighter, coming close to squeezing at your neck and leaving you short of air. If it were anybody else you'd be flailing about, but you're not. You just reach up to cradle his hands into your own, shrugging your face into his arm and finding that position comfortable.

His eyes close and eventually yours do as well, abandoning any worries of what lies behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thistle and clover belong to [this beautiful human being right here](https://spookys-artblog.tumblr.com/), go give em the credit they deserve for these troublesome beans


	2. old sorrow blows in with the scent of wood smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which moomin gets some fresh air and a little history lesson

"Moomin!" Too-Ticky calls. "Happy to see you out — mind comin' o'er to give me a hand?"

You want to point to your chest inanely, like _me? You want MY help??_ But that'd be stupid, because no one else here is named Moomin — and there's also no one here.

The backyard is usually littered in little Woodies digging up the yard or getting too close to Kukkah's garden that she leans out of the kitchen window to scold them. But it's lunchtime and everyone's inside — despite Snufkin's insisting for you to _try_ eating at least, you managed to pry away and now you relish this moment alone.

It's chillier than when you'd last stepped out, whenever that was. You've been watching the world from your window under strict house arrest, but there's nothing quite like the fresh breeze prickling your skin.

Too-Ticky stands near the shed cornered at the end of the lawn, smiling and waving you over. Minding your footing (the Woodies do such a heavy number on the soil and it's easy to trample over their mounds or holes or toys) you walk over to her; a heavy wind surfs across the neighborhood and some leaves cast themselves from one yard to the next, slapping across your pants and jacket. It's soon to be autumn: which means it's been approximately two or three months since you left the valley, give or take.

You reach her eventually; she gestures you inside the haven of the shed so the wind will stop blowing on you both. "Surprised yer out here by yerself," she comments over her shoulder. "Usually Snufkin is with you."

"I can do things without him," you reply; you're ruffled by her words but unsure why.

"I didn't say you couldn't," Too-Ticky says evenly. "How is he, by the way? Haven't spoken to him much since we found you."

"Um...fine, I guess?" You raise a brow even when she isn't looking. "I figured he was with you when he wasn't around me."

She pauses her walk and you do as well. Her voice sounds gentle but strange, and echoes along the wooden walls: "If he's not with you he's not with anyone else." She turns. "He worries an awful deal, you know."

"I know." You look to the floor, her eyes luminous and piercing blue against the darkened backdrop, and what she says stings in odd areas. "I know. It's my fault."

Too-Ticky provides an interval where she could say something but, of course, she doesn't. She locks away whatever spiel of life-altering wisdom she'd meant to bestow for the sake of waving you further back. "Come on o'er and I'll show you what needs to be done."

What the shed lacks in width it definitely makes up for in depth; you travel further and Too-Ticky flicks on a light hanging loosely from the ceiling, whose cord almost hits you across the face. On all sides: an array of tools and wires tacked onto the walls. They could be used as weapons if used accordingly, you think in a flash.

(Then again, anything could be weapons. You've learned that.)

Too-Ticky points your attention over to a figure lurking beneath a sheet — a familiar shape you hadn't expected to see again. You start a little. "Is that...?"

She rips off the cover and beneath it, as expected: a motorcycle. It's much more polished than your old one, and from first impressions a lot cleaner too. Certainly nicer to look at, but that could just be your naïve optimism. Although you don't know anything about bike types from your thumb you have seen Snorkmaiden work on some similar models when passersby walked in, so it's definitely a _common_ model. Hopefully that's because it's good.

There's something in your face that makes Too-Ticky chuckle. "I'm assumin' you didn't expect us to find a replacement?"

"I...no, I guess not," you admit; you're walking around the bike in awe, inspecting it to the best of your slightly-below-average knowledge. "It looks so... _new_. How did you even—?"

"Just some connections from around," she answers with a lazy grin, her tone holding a fair amount of pride beneath it still. "Folks are more generous when yer willin' to do some of their dirty work."

"Dirty work?" you look at her.

"Like yard work," she clarifies. "Not anything like what yer thinkin'."

You bite back an _oh thank goodness_ and just decide on a slight exhale. Then you run a finger across the handlebars idly, giving them a slight squeeze; a familiar action that makes you feel like you've stepped into worn, comfortable clothes for the first time in months.

"Just want to make sure she doesn't quit on us while we're out," Too-Ticky explains from behind. "She probably won't, but given our experiences with the last one it wouldn't hurt to be cautious."

"Are we....leaving?"

"Not until yer better, we're not," she answers. "And that shouldn't be for some time."

"Oh." With heaving effort you get on one knee to overlook the engine: all clean as suspected, with no gross gunk littering up any pipes, and that's a breath of fresh air honestly. You think with a smile that Snorkmaiden would probably approve, but then her absence strikes you so violently that it's physically painful. Instinctively you reach for a locket that isn't there anymore and the hurt cuts deeper.

A hand grips your shoulder with enough force to keep you grounded, but not enough to be perceived as threatening. "I _want_ you to take all the time you need to rest, that'd be the ideal," Too-Ticky murmurs, "but I can't guarantee that. From what it sounds like yer father's crew knew this town pretty well and we don't need anyone gettin' any ideas on where we might be hiding."

"They won't...they're not going to...?" You don't know what you planned to ask but it shrivels up in your throat halfway through; your hand is sore as it claws at your shirt.

"We won't let them take you again," Too-Ticky says firmly, her fingers squeezing into the meat of your shoulder. "I promise."

"Thank you..." Even if your heart isn't performing any less somersaults, consolation is good to have; you've been deprived of it for so long that any _drop_ of affection feels...nice. Undeserved, maybe, but nice. You place both knees on the floor to settle, the wood creaking under your weight, and you sit for a while to rearrange your thoughts.

Too-Ticky releases her hold just as it's becoming nettled; as you stew in your dialup state she walks over and starts fishing for tools nearby.

"Are you mad at me?" you ask suddenly, then falter, "I mean...for what I did."

She brings back over a toolkit and plots down beside you. "Of course not. Why would I be mad?"

"I don't know," you shrug glumly. "It must have been a big inconvenience to try and—"

"Yer not an inconvenience," she intercepts. "We wanted to find you because we care about you, and you would've done the same for us. This isn't about keeping scores of our debts — we can't afford to do that now."

"I'm still sorry I put you all through that. That wasn't...that wasn't my intention, I..."

"Don't be sorry about anything," Too-Ticky murmurs. "You did what you thought was right in the spur of everythin'. There's foolishness, sure, but there's also honor in that. I know what you were tryin' to do for us and that's what matters to me. You've got a good heart, Moomin."

You look to the floor and try not to protest that.

"Here." You feel something being prodded against your arm and you're forced to look back over. "'Stead of feelin' sorry for yerself, how about you go ahead and check the interior to make sure we're up and runnin'?"

Although she's brisk, she makes a point: no use wallowing in self-pity when you already do that plenty. You look at the tool you've just received, blink, and frown. "This is a gauge to check the tire pressure."

"See, that was a test," Too-Ticky winks, snatching the gauge out of your palm, "and you just passed it."

You have a feeling that wasn't the case, but regardless you just give a sigh because it's your cue to and it’s what you'd normally before everything happened. Your theatrical exasperation does make Too-Ticky's smile deepen, so you probably did the right thing. The last thing you want is to have someone else you love worried to death over you.

-

The hour flies in that shed; not that inspecting the bike took a long time, since there wasn't a lot to tweak. You're dying to give it a spin, naturally, but obviously you can't; Too-Ticky assures that you can ride it the moment you're better — you'll _have_ to, given that you're the designated driver. Right now it's just something to look forward to.

So, you spent most of the time outside just pawing through the miscellaneous tools, only appearing occupied when Too-Ticky looks over. The minute you step back into the house you'll be whisked upstairs and fretted over, and you're so sick of being treated so frailly all the time; Too-Ticky never treats you like you're weak. Although her _unique_ methods of care can rub you weirdly, she means well. It feels like the only thing that hasn't changed, how she acts with you — outside of Little My's teasing, but even that can wane in pending.

You step out once you can't entertain yourself anymore and the shed becomes as crowded as your bedroom. The wind still hasn't ceased so you stuff your hand into your jacket in a sudden shiver, then walk across the yard and step back into the kitchen. Once you slide open the door, the heat from inside spills across your figure and the relief is immediate; you remember to wipe your feet so Kukkah won't gripe.

Speak of the devil: there, hunched over the counter she sits with her bun askew and knuckles pressed into her forehead, squinting in concentration and emulating heavy stress. Multiple papers are strewn across her temporary workplace with a calculator and checkbook close by, occasionally tapping her pencil. From the tip of her round reading glasses, she gives you a long stare when you enter before hauling herself off the stool.

Silently she walks to the fridge and you just watch; she sweeps some papers aside to make room for the plate you now see she's brought out. It looks like some sort of casserole; you see bits of cauliflower embedded into the mix. On the side are some peas that you take a particular interest in.

Kukkah returns to her seat, adjusting her glasses. Without looking back at you, she instructs curtly, "Reheat for thirty seconds and it should be good as new."

You're a little behind on the uptake, still, so you have to wait for another cue and bounce on one foot aimlessly. She punches numbers into the calculate a while, a finger massaging her temple in stern thought, then says, "Your boyfriend insisted that I save you food from lunch. I don't accept leftovers so either eat it now or take it out to the compost."

Now that you have proper instructions, you walk over to take the cold plate in your hands. "Thank you."

She doesn't say anything more, just keeps working; it's a little hurtful.

But you do as you're told, placing your lunch in the microwave nearby and leaning against the countertop as you wait for the food to cook. Times like these drawl on for way too long, and thirty seconds becomes thirty hours as the machine hums and you try to cross your arms to practice being idle but the cast gets in the way. The awkwardness is itchy and further instills your inertia and Kukkah's disinterest in you altogether. You have a feeling if you tried to start any form of small talk it'd only lead to dead ends.

Finally the timer goes off and you take your seat in the parallel stool on the counter; you're courteous to ensure Kukkah has enough room to work so you stay along the corner. You take a fork and just play with the peas, still not hungry, but if you trashed the food Snufkin would know because Snufkin always knows. You'd hate to upset him further.

Slowly you take a bite, chew, chew, eventually swallow. It probably tastes good but in your mouth it's just cardboard.

"So you're Moomin's son."

This abrupt veering into conversation — partly because it's not from someone you expected, mostly because this topic is something you'd really _really_ rather not discuss — has you choking on a morsel in your throat. You pound a fist into your breastbone as you cough, spitting out a piece of cauliflower into your napkin.

Kukkah appears undaunted at your display, her eyes lidded downward as she continues to scribble something into her checkbook.

A final cough into your hand before you maintain enough morale to answer, "Uh. Y-yes, I'm...I'm his son."

"Hm, figured so when I saw you. You have his nose."

"That's what gave it away?" you ask, a little bewildered.

"No, what gave it away was your story, " Kukkah answers; she still won't look up and, based on her tone and expression, she seems pretty bored even when _she's_ the one who brought this up. "Not a lot of people remember the Oshun Oxtra."

"But...you do, right?"

"Water is in the fridge," she derails. "Clear your throat and then you may ask whatever you want."

Although the twinge of annoyance you feel is sharp, she is correct that your coughing fit left your throat dry and scratchy. You get up and retrieve a glass, then gulp down the water like you'll never drink it again. Better.

You return to your seat. "So," you try, "my father...?"

"Yes, Moomin." Kukkah sets her pencil down and finally gives you a gander — but her gaze is about as welcoming as the rest of her, so you squirm a little. "Or, Moomin Sr. now, presumably. He and the other Oshun Oxtra members are actually the godfathers of this little foster home, actually."

You start. "Really?”

"I didn't agree with all of what they were doing," she amends, upon your reaction. "But...sometimes when dirty cash is handed your way and there's no other options, well, you tend to forget to care about where the money came from. And aren't we all guilty this side of the tracks?"

She doesn't let you ponder. "Anyway, your father helped me set up a home for children affected by the crimes of the syndicates — it was a much bigger problem back then, gang wars and shootouts and all. Many innocent people would fall into the line of fire. Your father knew that. I also know Moom— _he_ was also to blame, but...he seemed willing to make up for what he did. Maybe out of guilt or just to cover-up, I don't know, but when he learned about my proposal to set up a program for children specifically affected by the mobs he stepped up to help me. He actually built a good portion of this house, quite the woodworker."

"Okay..." You jab at your cooling casserole with your fork.

"And that one fellow, I don't know if you ever knew him, " she continues, "Muddler, I think? What a sweet lad. Between you and me I think he just got roped into the business — there wasn't a violent bone in that man's body.

"All this to say," Kukkah reigns in upon seeing your poorly-concealed glare as everything in your mind contradicts, "is that I know your father isn't exempt from performing the same crimes that the Woodies have fled from. But I've also seen him do some exceptional things with the power he had. Whether that helps you feel better about this circumstance is up to you."

"I..." You have no choice but to turn away. "I don't...I don't know."

She takes this as an answer and the discussion is dropped. And in some ways that's kind, to not be on the hot seat about what this information is doing to your already-whirring uproar of beliefs. It all grates rather uncomfortably against this image you've built of your father during his prime years, because what he's done is so bad and awful it's terrifying to stoop him back down to a reachable level. If he's a figure you can sympathize with, that can lead into _being_ him if you're not careful. There's no _room_ for good if you're to dedicate oneself to that lifestyle fully.

Your head hurts and you're really not hungry.

The chair squawks when you push it across the tile and abruptly stand. With your still-full plate in hand, you say, "If Snufkin asks, can you just tell him I ate everything?"

Kukkah gives you a strange eye, but nods. You thank her and she just reminds you that the compost is located on the side of the house, so you follow her directions with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner on death row.


	3. i lay by the moss of his skin until it grew strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we do some late summer gardening, and just gdi snufkin

Another week has passed and you're outside again for the second time. A couple more Woodies snuck into your bed and toppled all over yourself in a vain attempt to wake you up — which _did_ work at the expense of several bad pains to accompany. With a good portion of your body now out of commission Snufkin ordered you to rest until the aches lessened. You're still let out to help with laundry and little things, but that's only because Kukkah gave Snufkin some very strong words just outside your door (when you definitely weren't eavesdropping).

Today is crisper than the last you were out; the nip in the breeze has tucked you into heavy quilts as you're splayed out in a lawn chair, watching Snufkin pick at the final summer harvest. He yanks the peppers off their stems first, then the green onions from the soil since they're close to dying in the new cold. You're provided some leverage of responsibility, albeit small, when he hands off some vegetables for you to store into respective baskets. It's as thrilling as it sounds.

If he's not looking, you do some once-overs of the products to checks for spots or bruises; you don't blame your partner for missing some, since he's only working in a thin jacket and it's probably doing some numbers on both quality and patience. Most seem adequate enough, with the care of someone that has definitely worked in the garden beforehand.

"How are you feeling?" Snufkin doesn't turn around when he asks, since he crouched over a particularly rough spot in the soil and struggling to pull out some turnips lurking beneath. (You could've probably uprooted them by now.)

For the millionth time this week you answer, "Much better, thank you."

"That's good," he says. "I've noticed you've been sleeping better at night too."

"That's a bit creepy," you comment, all in fond teasing until Snufkin's voice edges.

"I want to make sure you're doing well, and we share the same bed. What's creepy about it?"

The way he phrases this does rankle you if you're honest. But he's not always this brute, you remind yourself, it's just cold out and you'd been the one to make things difficult by requesting (begging) to go out for some fresh air.

You turn your head, downcast; your mood sours as easily as milk in sunlight nowadays so small things like this can have the tendency to tip you off all day. In a silent huff you sweep your quilt across your body, adjusting it so you can snuggle deeper into the warmth, and finally Snufkin looks over again.

He hops off his knees and walks over to help you tuck the blankets in, his gaze a bit glassy from the demanding yardwork but still having that glint of determination about him, like he's on a personal mission. You murmur a thanks when he finishes and his frown lifts a little before he leans forward to touch noses; his hands find your own cloaked beneath the heavy fabrics.

Despite everything, you lean in as well and wear an easy grin following his gestures.

"You're not too cold?" Snufkin checks.

"Quit your fussing," you chide, deciding against rolling your eyes. "I'm fine sitting out here. It's nice to sit back and watch you work, anyway." Then you pull open your arms to momentarily expose your open lap, should he take the initiative.

He does; with care he seats himself atop you, wrapping his arms loosely around your neck with a sly smile. "Is that so."

You seal both of you inside the comfort of the quilts amidst the grand gesture of affection, encircling Snufkin's waist to the best of your ability while minding your cast.

"You're good with the garden," you say into his neck. "Are you just naturally gifted at everything you do or is this yet another backstory I've yet to hear?"

Snufkin laughs and the sound thuds against the chords of his throat: a pleasant beat to press your cheek against. "You tease, acting like you're watching my _gardening_." Then after a minute he answers, "But yes, I have some...experiences with farming. I lived with some folk for a while back in middle school."

"Lucky," you sigh. "I'd have killed for a garden back home. But the soil was too raggedy and dry to do much with it, unless you lived along the hillside. It sounds like fun, though."

"It's fun if you like getting up at dawn," Snufkin shrugs. "There's a lot of commitment to planting things by yourself — I killed off a good portion of crops before I can find a rhythm that worked. But, it _was_ fulfilling work to feel like I had responsibility over something, if only for a short time."

You squeeze his middle a little. "I like learning new things about you."

"Oh?" You feel him peer down; there's curiosity lingering in the tone, as well as a hint of something bashful. "I figured there wasn't much to tell. I don't consider myself anything too interesting."

"That's too bad," you say. "I think you're the most interesting thing I've ever come across."

Snufkin leans back some so you can properly view his expression: his face is blotchy in weird areas from working hard in the cold, but there's a big smile that threatens to show the tips of his teeth, and you think the blush isn't _just_ from his chores. It's nice, though; Snufkin never really smiles.

"Well then," he says, "What would you like to know?"

"Hmm..." You perk up your lip in thought, then decide on: "Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?"

"Yes," he answers easily. "Though I could never choose a design for it. I'd like to find a pattern or object that holds meaning to me, you know? Not just...flowers or constellations for the sake of."

"I understand that," you nod, then shudder. "Eugh, I couldn't _stand_ getting a tattoo myself. I despise needles."

"They're not so terrible once you get used to them," your partner assures. "I had a friend that used heroin and he didn't seem to mind the needles after a while. He let me try some once."

You almost choke. "You tried _heroin_??"

" _Once._ I didn't like it."

"You're terrible!" you laugh, revolted but fond. He grins wider; then he curls back into you and you into him, and you sit like that in a bliss that hangs over you like you presume intoxication would. It's not long before your thighs kind of hurt from Snufkin crushing them, also if you think too hard you feel his knees digging into your ribs like knives, considering that the lawn chair was only designed for one. But these irritations can melt into faint concerns, given that you can hear his heartbeat. These little things with Snufkin you thrive for so often, because lately you've been stripped so thin of them.

After a while you say, "I think I'd just get my own name tattooed." Then you crack a smile even though, in hindsight, the punchline is only for you. "That way when I'm found dead in a ditch it would be easier to contact my parents and let them know."

Snufkin stiffens. That wasn't the right thing to say.

The quiet stretches from a brevity of peace to the dreaded arrival of your execution; only the wind howls in laughter. It's not funny, you hadn't _said_ it to be funny, but...

"You're still thinking of your parents," Snufkin murmurs lowly — perhaps it was meant to be a question originally, but now it sounds like a tired accusation.

"Of course," you say, and then the weight of it hammers ugly in your body like your brief thoughts of Snorkmaiden with the bike. It's longer than expected before you can admit, "I think I miss them."

Snufkin's hands knead into the back of your neck, twitching at the hems of where your spine and skull meet but then forcibly stilling his fingers.

It's a hard confession to make but you're relieved to admit it — it gives this ache a name.

You miss home. You may have troubles with Mamma and Pappa now, but if you're going to miss home then you might as well miss the rest of it: Snorkmaiden's nightly gossips, Sniff's odd visitation hours to show off some new game, Alicia's cold shoulder, Mamma's pancakes, Pappa's workshop's sounds and smells. Etcetera.

Snufkin's remained quiet as you brew this over; his hands trail along the ending wisps of your hair that you really need to get cut again, but his movement are slow, deliberate.

"I wish I _didn't_ miss them," you continue thickly, and your head lowers so it can fall onto his shoulder. "But...I do. And I haven't called them in so long they probably think I'd dead anyways. It's just...so much to leave them with, and I already ruined everything by leaving _them_ with everything. I could've— should have forgiven them sooner, but...—"

"Perhaps," Snufkin finally ventures, "it's best that you don't reach them."

"I-I don't know about that, I—"

"You don't _need_ them, Moomin," he bristles in your hold. "None of them. You're making a life outside of them, away from the parents that would rather lie to their own _son_ than confess their crimes. And isn't this what you wanted in the first place — to be free of them?"

"Well, yes, but—"

Then Snufkin cups your cheeks in his hands and levels your face with his and you think about that night on the rooftops, when the whole sky was captured in his eyes and you saw a life in that. When you felt was he was saying cutting through your guts and reeling you in. And now he carries that same air of danger, those wisps of starlight and excitement that you see now, in a different light.

"They _lied_ to you, Moomin. They don't deserve your forgiveness; they trapped you in their deceit and now you're just flailing about to recover the pieces. But you don't owe them anything — you're _better_ than them, Moomin!" His fingers nearly claw into your cheeks, like trying to hold you in place. "And if you do reach them, what then? Won't they just try to coerce you to come back home?"

"They...they wouldn't do that." You try to shake your head at first, but uncertainty is quick to drop your objections.

"You— You _can't_ go home, Moomin. After everything, you just..." Snufkin's voice falls into cracks and his relentless look has tremendously dampened like wet leaves over flame. He hangs his head a little and thumbs trail across your upper cheekbone. "I don't want you to leave again, Moomee. Please. _Please_ listen to me just _once_ on this. You _can't_ go."

_He's scared._

"Of course I won't," you promise. "I'm staying right here." You lean in for a kiss but it's uncomfortable; Snufkin won't kiss back until you affirm against his lips, "I _swear_ to you, I'm not going anywhere ever again."

A pause. "Good." There's relief as he breathes into your mouth, leaning forward to close whatever gap is left. "Good..."

It starts fluttery and soft, toeing the line in affirming boundaries or just being too scared to run the other off; but once you're firmfooted enough you move your head a little to the side for a better angle into his mouth, and that does a trick. Snufkin presses further with abrupt eagerness and meanwhile grips at the end of your shirt with needy fingers; he kisses with a lot of teeth, sometimes tongue but mostly teeth, like trying to devour this feeling whole. And then this low, keening sound grumbling in his gut pools into your chest and your only cognitive thought is, _Oh._

He's remarkable. He's _wonderful._

The heat of your bodies melding calls attention to how hot it's grown and the blankets are peeled off so they fall off the sides of the chair. Maybe you should be thinking better about the when's and why's or whatever but suddenly there's an open moan against your mouth and you feel about ready to _explode_. And your good hand travels to the hem of his jacket and it lifts a little, and it's all so very much and somehow not enough—

"Hey, HEY!! _EXCUSE_ me!!!"

Kukkah's screech has you both ripping apart with a ferocity like cold water has been poured over your heads. Drugged by arousal you'd failed to see that you've garnered an audience: Kukkah _vibrating_ with fury from the kitchen window, now opened; a Woodie in her arms with a hand being clasped over their eyes; Nessie from behind her girlfriend, hiding a grin behind her palm.

Snufkin's fallen onto the dirt after you tossed him _very_ rudely from your lap in haste to clear the evidence. Unfazed somehow, he lifts his head to position his sights towards the window. Still flat on his back he greets her calmly, "Hello, Kukkah. I'm almost finished with the garden—"

"Oh, is _that_ so?" Her face is angrier than you've ever seen it; although her glare isn't on yourself you still shrink under it. "Because last I checked harvesting vegetables didn't involve _copulating_ in MY backyard!" Adjusting the Woodie into one arm, she points wildly between you. "Need I remind you to keep things modest as you're in the presence of _several_ children?"

"Oh, Kukkah," Nessie asserts between stifled giggles, "they meant no harm. Surely you haven't forgotten _us_ being so young and careless?"

"Romantic intercourse is best kept _private_ , love, no matter the age," Kukkah sighs harshly. And then her forefinger is on you and you shoot up. "YOU! Let your partner finish his work in _peace_ , please!! Get back in here and...I don't know, help Nessie with sweeping! Do _something_ rather than be a menace!"

"He hasn't done anything!" Snufkin argues.

"Apparently since you lot are nothing but insatiable schoolchildren, his mere _presence_ is all it takes to get you distracted." Then she pulls down the window after yelling, "Now get back to work or I'll have you sleeping out in the cold!"

"Dear!" Nessie cries, but you don't hear the rest of what she has to say since the slam of the windowpane blots out any audible response.

Exhaling, blustered like a scolded toddler, you shrivel into your chair and curve your back so your head can rest atop your kneecaps. Clearly this moment has been tainted and you're in no means to revive it; if Mother Earth wished to swallow you whole at any point now would be a _wonderful_ time.

Snufkin starts to laugh. It's a full belly laugh that wracks his frame and he has to hold his middle to keep from folding in completely, his other arm thrown across his eyes. He's all teeth and smiles and sees this as something much funnier than it is — but it's contagious and you withhold a couple of chuckles yourself, watching your partner lose it so uncharacteristically on the dirt floor. Even if you're still deathly humiliated. 

Then he hauls forward to broadcast his giddy, delirious expression and you realize that this is the first time you've ever seen your partner so carefree.

Once you've gathered your materials and make to head inside, Snufkin stops you in front of the backdoor again for one last kiss, then breaks apart with another fit of elation at Kukkah's horrified squawk from the other side of the glass.

-

(You try to rekindle the mood that night, but suddenly the gentle fingers have shifted into the same hard knuckles that tore your skin open, beaded blood drawn from scratches and purple rushing forth to color everywhere they touched. You have to turn your head and bite back _something_ from erupting out of your throat; you don't like the way your partner is straddling you anymore.

He reigns you back in with whispers and cautious hands. You say you're sorry because it _has_ been a long time since you desired sex and fallen through with it, and that's probably very unfair to Snufkin for you to quit halfway through.

He asks if you want to continue and you don't know, you don't know, you really really don't know

and in this disarray he just cradles you, half-naked still, kissing your temple and breathing into your hair like those bad nights on the bathroom floor.

"You don't know what you want," he finishes for you: blunt, testing the waters to see if it holds true, and you think that it does. "It's going to be alright, Moomin. Whatever happens, I'll be here. I'm going to help you however I can. I promise."

Then he spends a while smoothing out the sheets to make you comfortable again, and somehow you wake in the morning with no memory of drifting off and copious bouts of shame for being so indecisive at the worst times.)


	4. risk joy in the raw wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which little my is actually helpful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter but a valid one
> 
> comments and kudos help!

They're hiding something, you're certain of it; Too-Ticky and Snufkin have been murmuring in close confidence when others are looking elsewhere, and you pretend you don't notice because it's not polite to intervene. But their faces are deathly serious and you're worried, with their track record, that potentially a slew of bad ideas is being concocted into a singular Very Bad Idea and they want to ensure you're not going to hear about it. But even if that isn't the case, it still twists hurt into your stomach because either way they're withholding something from you, probably because they doubt you can handle it.

For now you mope and do the bare minimum of chores — Nessie offers you tasks but she finishes them quicker than you so there's no use for you to stick around — while trying to figure out why the mood of the house has changed without you having retrieved the memo.

You're vacuuming the living room, minding the handful of Woodies watching some cartoons on the floor and unbothered by the noise you're making. You're lost in thought about your friends' sudden silent treatment and, inevitably, how everyone back home is doing. Neither leave you feeling euphoric.

"Hey."

In surprise you nearly trip over Little My, who appears unbothered — she's tripped over constantly anyway, but has become conscientious about lashing out due to the Woodies in close proximity — and just furrows her brows, giving you a minute interrogation. Something must be showing on your face that you hadn't intended to promote, because of course Little My goes for a strike:

"Moomin, you look like shit."

She's probably right but you can still be offended; you press a harsh finger to your lips and flit your gaze over to the Woodies encircling the television, silently reminding her to _please_ keep her warranty of swears to a minimum.

"I mean, it's not like that's anything new," she continues anyway. "But every time Snufkin isn't with you it's like you've lost a limb. Always toiling about aimlessly. Kind of pathetic, don't you think?"

You turn off the vacuum. "Is there something you need from me?" you snap. "Or are you just going to stand there and poke fun at my disabilities?"

"What 'disabilities'?" Little My scoffs. "Your arm? Please. I have a sister who lost all feeling waist-down and she _still_ manages to do more than what _you've_ been doing."

You think about lots of uncharitable things you could say in return, although Little My wouldn't listen to any of it so it'd be wasted breath. But her blithe remarks have yourself roiling in blind defense, in humiliation.

"First step to recovery is to quit your lollygagging and at the least _pretend_ you're able to function, Moomin," she goes on. "I'm not being cruel without intention, you know. And if _I'm_ not gonna tell you to quit dragging your feet, believe me when I say no one else will."

"I know." Deep down, truly, you know this. And you don't know what to do with it.

"Well, now that I've said my spiel." She reaches into the back pocket of her dress to retrieve something — you imagine whatever it is will be flung at your chest and you're proven correct when her launching an object directly at you makes you stumble backwards, stifling a yelp. Said object smacks onto the front of your chest and drops to the floor at your feet.

You peer down in curiosity, finding it to be a paper bag with the contents inside being—

Oh.

With hesitant fingers, as though this all could slip right through them, you bend down and pick up the bag. With Little My helping (after a click of her tongue and an eyeroll) the seal snaps open and you cradle the inner treasure in your palm, speechless.

Snorkmaiden's locket.

Your voice has yet to obey you so you just stare at the necklace with heavy emotions blooming at the fore of your chest. It filters your sensations, and your vision blurs as everything else in your body catches up with this discovery.

"H-how did—"

"Came across it as we were trying to bust you out — guess they keep all their hostages' personal belongings in a failsafe, conveniently," Little My shrugs.

"What— why—?"

"You're asking _me_ , pal," she huffs, with a bit of amusement. "But I'm not one to question a happy accident. Sorry about the chain, though. Snufkin fixed it as best he could but I guess he...forgot to give the final piece to you."

The last words fall flat, but you're too busy thumbing the golden heart pendant to truly care. As Little My said, the matching gold chain has been substituted with a silver one — although the length appears to be just as long so it should suit your neck just fine.

You close your hand around this prized possession, bringing it to your chest, and suddenly you're a mess. Everything has just rushed forth and exploded behind your eyes, the flush of heat that always precedes sobs has your head hurting as you sink to the floor and cry.

Little My's sure to feel misplaced now and you feel so sorry for putting her in such an awkward position: you on your knees because of a necklace from your ex-girlfriend — in the living room with children present, no less. But you really _had_ thought it was gone for good, this final remnant of your life before everything went wrong.

And Snufkin is now embedded into it as well, sported by the new chain; a sort of memorabilia to these two people that you'd give your life for and love unconditionally. Once again, the locket's meaning has shifted into something that fits just right.

You're still coming down from your emotional high when Little My taps your leg with your boot, and you look up at her with a bright smile that holds amidsts the tears.

She blinks. "Um..."

"T-thank you, My," you sniffle, and you're so so happy. "Thank you so...so much. I'm...I'm so grateful, you don't..."

 _You don't know how much this means to me,_ you finish internally, since it seems your voice has packed up and left again. You wipe your face with the back of your hand still clutching the pendant.

"Uh," Little My shuffles a bit. "No trouble. Um. So. Do you need help getting up, orrr—"

A chuckle escapes you for some reason, which derails into a full laugh that makes your stomach hurt. You grin up at your companion again. "Sure."

But first you gesture for her assistance on putting on the locket, so she rounds to your backside and you hand it off. The chain clicks after a couple attempts and, once in place, it falls to your chest like it always has.

It fits perfectly.

Little My then helps you to your feet — or tries to, since you do most of the work and she just tugs at your shirt until you're standing — and you try not to rub your nose on your sleeves for dignity's sake, whatever's left of that anyway. A tiny finger pokes at your back and you turn to find that the Woodies have all gathered behind you in wonder, their television shows long forgotten.

One points to your locket. "S'that yours?"

Obviously, but for the sake of the children you explain, "Ah, yes. Yes, it's my friend's...Well, it's _mine_ but she also has a matching one."

"Like a friendship bracelet?" another Woodie chips in.

"Exactly," you smile; even though your eyes are dried up and your throat hurts you still lean down and proudly present the pendant to the audience. "I suppose it's a friendship necklace, in that case."

"Can I touch it?" One in the back yells, and the others follow suit in bubbling intrigue and advance to completely crowd you in.

Little My makes a noise that's probably mocking, but you don't care; kneeling back down on one knee, careful and slow, you advise the children to be polite as they clamber over themselves for a peek. Some begin to crawl on your back in a bout of play and loom over your shoulder, and one just unties your shoelaces.

You explain to the Woodies as best you can on the history of the locket and why it had you reacting how you did. And this transitions to you sitting in that spot for hours telling stories about your ventures back home, however insubstantial they may be, but the Woodies all sit and listen. You don't notice until later when they've all left to help with dinner that your stories had brought yourself a whiff of nostalgia, of comfort, for the first time in a while.

With a final curl of your fist around the heart, you get back up and finish your chores.


	5. but all the void behind my teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which things are said

The kitchen phone has been leering at you for _days_ and you still can't find it in you to confront it. It's gotten to where you find excuses just to avoid the kitchen entirely for this reason, because you're just pacing about in a ceaseless quarrel that only has one solution.

A boost of confidence has come with the retrieval of your locket, and you want to do _something_ with it before it withers away from disuse. Apparently this has lead to you pondering over calling your parents — at the _least_ call Snorkmaiden. The downside is that any contact you attempt will open a huge can of worms you won't be able to close the lid on; if they asked you the specifics of what's been going on you don't think you could just lie about what happened.

So, you wallow outside the kitchen doors for what feels like eternity, trying to gather courage but failing. On one hand you've been longing to hear your best friend's voice on the other end of the line, or get some updates on what's going on around the valley even if there's nothing in particular. On the other, she'll be too busy yelling at you to really give you any news.

(And, concerning the cons, Snufkin would disapprove of making any connections with your parents again. He did raise some good points, but...)

"Dinner isn't fer another couple'o hours," Too-Ticky says — and you twirl to face her in embarrassment on how she snuck up on you. Her eyes twinkle with easygoing amusement. "If yer that hungry I don't think Kukkah would mind you grabbin' an apple or somethin' small."

You look to your feet and pout some. "I'm not really that hungry..."

She's quiet as you collect your internal bearings, then pries, "Everythin' alright, Moomin? You seem under the weather."

You sigh. "No, I just...I'm trying to figure something out."

"It must be important," she says. "I haven't caught you lookin' this upset in weeks."

...Perhaps a second notion would be best here; you already know Snufkin's stance but another opinion wouldn't hurt. Besides, Too-Ticky always has a rational answer up her sleeve, whether you like the answer or not.

But as you open your mouth to ask her something related to the problem at hand, you suddenly take into account her dark apparel. Often you catch her wearing stripes and bright colors, so this strikes you oddly.

You're going to pry before Snufkin's voice resounds from the hallway to your right, leading to the Woodies' bedrooms. "Thistle, _off!_ What have we discussed??"

"But you're going somewhere! We wanna come too!"

The sight of your partner hopping into view is just as slanted as Too-Ticky's closet change — particularly because on one of his legs Thistle is latched onto his baggy jeans and Snufkin is struggling to detach him. More children follow after the pair, grappling at the ends of Snufkin's jacket and pants and boots.

"Will you be back soon?" one asks amidst the crowd (that's Linden, right, you remember), and another yells, "Bring back something for me!"

"Me too!"

"Me infinity!"

Exasperated, Snufkin reaches down to (gently) pry Thistle off his leg and immediately scampers back to avoid any other Woodie hands. "Maybe someday, but not now!" he snaps. "Can't you all just return to your games?"

"No!" is shouted in unison.

His face pummels into his hands. "Fine, fine. I'll _see_ if I can bring anything back, alright?"

The Woodies erupt in an excited, giggling mass that bolts into the next room over, having seemingly gotten what they set out to achieve. Their laughter softens with distance, and Snufkin looks after them with a not-truly-irritated glare.

"Snufkin?" you call out.

He turns in a fright, like he hadn't expected company. When he sees it's you, rather than seeming relieved there's a bout of shame and then something else crossing his gaze.

"I thought you were in our room," he says — it doesn't come out as an inquiry but more of a sort of frustrated statement. A breach in some sort of signed contract.

"I..."

"Snufkin," Too-Ticky interrupts, "are you ready to go?"

"Go...?" You glance between them, nonplussed.

"He didn't tell you?" Too-Ticky looks at you sidelong, then at Snufkin with a strange narrow of her eyes.

"Tell me what?"

That's when you take into full account that _both_ of your companions are dressed in black from head-to-toe. It's...weird, and very suspicious given how they've been talking in nothing but code and whispers for a while now. Only Snufkin's trademark jacket offers a spot of color, but even that's a dull earthy green; his hair's been stuffed into a black cap and only peeks of auburn slip out.

No one says anything until you snap, "What the hell is going on?"

Snufkin's eyes find your chest. "Where did you find that?"

"Find—" Your hands trail to the area he's burning a hole into, and you run a thumb along your... "My locket, you mean? Little My gave it to— What does _that_ matter!" Then you clutch your pendant in an angry fist upon your collarbone, gripping it tightly as though to anchor your impatience.

"I expected Snufkin to tell you, love," Too-Ticky says; her hand presses into your shoulder like a comfort. "But since he hasn't...we're off to investigate a nearby warehouse. Been watchin' it fer a while and we have reason to believe it's owned by...well, the men who took you."

Your world spins, slurring your response. "I-I...why would you—?"

"Anythin' we can gather on these folks will help us in the long run," she explains. "S'not much, but...this way we can start makin' connections on who owns what around here and who's in charge — Kukkah _has_ alluded to nearby gang activity, so we're thinkin' that it could be connected."

"Wha—" You shake her touch away, a slow anger rising when you ask, "And is Little My in on this as well?"

"My is visitin' a relative that lives close by right now."

"She's..." And then it explodes. "Why doesn't _anybody_ tell me _ANYthing_?? You all just snuck around my back to plan this...this _suicide_ mission???"

"There's no need to be dramatic," Snufkin steps in. "We just didn't want you to worry."

You face him and he shrivels back against the glare you're wearing. "You didn't want me to _worry_?!" you scream. "What, were you going to say you're off for a milk run and suddenly you return with five bullet wounds, was that it? Or perhaps you don't return at all! What then??"

"That won't happen—"

"You don't KNOW!!" You resist the overwhelming urge to stomp your foot like a child in a tantrum, but your voice is still dangerously close to a whine, "You really weren't going to tell me, Snufkin? You wanted me to — SIT and do nothing as you go and risk your life and for WHAT!"

"For _answers_ , Moomin!" Snufkin's face morphs into a distraught scowl and his back straightens as he sizes you up, anger climbing as rapidly as your own. "Perhaps you've forgotten that we're still in a compromised situation and we have _mob men_ chasing us! And they— they _hurt_ you, and they took you from me...and I _care_ about that! I care about _why_ they did that and what they wanted from you and this shouldn't have happened at all! I'm doing this for _us_ , do you understand??"

"If you were truly doing it for me, you wouldn't do it at all! Why wouldn't you just tell me? I could help!"

"You can't—"

"I _can't_ help, is that it?" You show teeth in what's supposed to be a ruined, cruel smile, but it just comes out as a silent snarl; you gesture sharply at your cast, "Because I'm so useless and scarred now that I'm just dead weight."

Snufkin's eyes flare. "I did _not_ say that, don't you _dare_ say that."

"Well you've certainly _acted_ like I'm useless these past few weeks!"

" _Boys._ " Too-Ticky looks somber if not as impatient as the rest of you. "I understand that there's many grievances to air, but right now we're on a bit of a crunch so I suggest we move. You can discuss this later."

Snufkin looks ready to protest, but then nods and walks past you to meet at Too-Ticky's side, and they walk together to the door. When you reach for him he worms his arm away from your touch.

_Oh, so we're playing like this, then?_ Your fury bolts you over to the door that your friends are departing from and attempt to block it, but Snufkin just weasels past you.

"I need to _leave_ ," he snaps. "We'll talk when I get back."

"IF you get back!"

Again you grab him and he slaps away your hand; he's already out the door and you join him on the porch. "What's it going to take for you to listen when I say this is a _stupid_ plan??" you snarl.

"What does it matter!" He has the _nerve_ to roll his eyes this time. "Who cares if I get hurt?"

" _I_ do!! Is that not enough?"

"Let me worry about _you_ , Moomin, not the other way around."

As you're arguing you realize he's been sidestepping his way over to the truck in the driveway, where Too-Ticky is starting the engine. This raises your hackles further. "So now when _I_ express concerns they're invalid?"

"That's not the case and you know it!" Snufkin snaps. "But we've already decided what we plan to do and I'm following through with it!"

"Without _my_ knowledge."

"You're being childish."

"I'M being childish? Caring about what happens to my partner is considered _childish_ to you???"

"Again, boys?" Too-Ticky yells, having rolled down the window on the passenger's side to lean forward and call, "Yer bringin' up valid points but that can be explored later—"

You whip your head to her in a fit of rage. "This doesn't concern you!!"

Too-Ticky's brows fly to her forehead, but she stays quiet and taps her index on the wheel.

"No, would you like to know what's childish, Snufkin?" you spit. "It's going behind your partner's back and scheming up a _delusional_ plan to learn more about our pursuers—"

"And what would you do instead? Let them roam free and having them harm _more_ innocent folk?"

“Don't you pretend for a SECOND that this is about the greater good because it never has been!"

"Need I remind you of their crimes against us, Moomin! You think I'm going to let them walk all over us after seeing what they've done to you???"

You just—!" There are now hot tears spilling onto your cheeks when you erupt, "You don't _LISTEN_ to me!!"

Everything stops. Your words stick to the air and Snufkin retracts, his glare widening but ultimately being diminished of its flames. But he bristles in place, and doesn't that just grate you further — that he's still angry and you're angry too.

"I just wanted..." Fuck your sinuses are throbbing; that means you're going to be a snotty mess in a few and you're going to look so stupid. "I want things to be _normal_ between us, whatever that was, before all this happened with me, and — what I went through. I...I just want you to trust me. I'm still _me_ , I swear that I am." You bring a tired palm to your face, wiping hastily at your tears. "I just love you so much, and...I don't want you worrying like you are. We already have so much to fret over and we could...we _should_ worry together, like before."

It's hard to look at him so you just look at his boots. "Please just trust me," you try at last. "Regardless of what's happened to me, I...I want to help. I want to help you."

Things stay quiet, outside of the truck running its engine in the background. The quiet feels strange, since you doubt Snufkin would withhold reassurances for this long if he had any. Beneath his shoes you see the undertone of his toes flexing under the leather as he shifts his weight.

"You should've thought about all that before turning yourself in," Snufkin says finally, tone low. "Like a fool."

The hurt is vivid enough to really strike at your middle. When you look at him in shock, his expression is flat and perhaps, if you strain, it's cold. The only leak in his mask is a twitching brow, a trembling frown, which could equal a restrained scream or some kind of sob.

"Snufkin..."

He turns his shoulder to the direction of the truck, still facing you with an unforgiving stare. His boot is pointed out to rush away the second he has the opportunity to. "You expect me to trust your judgments when it's gotten you into nothing but trouble," he goes on. "You're not well, Moomin. I told you that they've done something to you, and I'm doing whatever it takes to fix it."

Your voice is painful to use: "Please don't—"

"I've done everything to tell you: this isn't your valley. You can't be naïve out here and cling to worthless things and yet you _do._ You keep the locket when it's done you no good, you insist on calling your parents when they've been nothing but deceitful, you're so _kind_ and _innocent_ and look where that's gotten you. _Still_ you don't change and _still_ you make it seem like I'm dragging you along against your will."

"I..."

"I'm doing all of this for _you_ ," he continues; there's hidden coals beneath his words, waiting for a spark to ignite them. "And I will _keep_ doing what I can for you, because I love you." Then he fully-faces you, and you study the sharp blades protruding from his jacket. He repeats what he said that night you froze up, in a sharper tongue:

"You don't know what you want, Moomin. And you shouldn't force yourself to, because I'm going to love you and care for you and I'm going to finish what's been started. And there's nothing you can do to stop me."

Cruelly, he doesn't let you respond as he walks down the steps, across the yard, into the passenger's seat, closes the door, and doesn't even give you a second glance.

If this were a sort of fight in a movie or something similar, the first flecks of rain would start to drip onto your head, and the sky would turn grey and mourn. But the sun hangs mercilessly overhead and makes everything too bright and real. The truck departs and the world continues on.

He leaves you on the porch, and now you have to pick up the pieces in a sluggish agony, which makes the anger stewing beneath your veins slower to come forth and even slower to have you acknowledge it.


	6. that for every hurt there is a leaf to cure it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which moomin needs (and makes) a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another gun violence chapter and ptsd chats

The fight has helped you discover a new way to be tired, it seems; you've trudged back inside and haven't budged from the couch since. Nessie has offered a pot of tea having spotted how badly your condition has become, and you just half-shrugged so she took it as a yes. You hear her working around the kitchen to bring out cups, but you can't find it in you to go and help (even though _she_ wouldn't brush you away because you're so kind and worthless).

Admitting surrender, you trail in and out of sleep, awoken by a palpating heartbeat that riles up when you remember the stress you're struggling to shove under the carpet, and also that Snufkin is _still_ out on a _very_ dangerous mission. It all sinks and twists when you remember his harsh words. And then you grow tired of it all and close your eyes again. Rinse and repeat for an unknown span of time.

You _know_ you shouldn't have sacrificed yourself like that and it was a foolish idea, but hearing that from someone you love has really made you feel exceptionally awful about everything. The wrongness of you, spewing from _his_ mouth of all people, means you've reached an absolute. Now everyone has grown tired of your self-pity — and you can't break out of it because that means suddenly getting over all the nightmares and bad moods to prove you're still okay, but you can't do that.

You are what you've been twisted into. Everyone is just shoving their hands into whatever crevice of yourself they can grab to try and pull a sliver of your older self out, but...it's not working. And it's all your fault for, as Snufkin said, being so stupid and careless.

A small tap on your shoulder breaks you out of this cyclone of despair. Opening your eyes you're greeted with a small Woodie pressed up against your side, wringing their hands together uneasily. There are blotches of brighter skin against their overall dark complexion, and it strikes you as odd but also intriguing to the eye; they can't be older than ten.

"Um," they say softly. "Hi."

"Hello."

"I'm Olive."

"I'm...Moomin."

They smile a little. "Hello, Moomin." Then their eyes trail to your sling, smothering your cast. "Are you okay?"

You heave upwards onto the pillows so they can get look; they crane their head over your stomach to get a better view, and you make as much room on the small couch as possible so they can climb up onto your stomach. Their massive crown of black curls spills across the front of your chest as they place their head (rather cutely) on the crook of your neck.

"What happened?" Olive points to your cast.

"Um...I got into a bad fight," you explain, picking your words carefully, "and some men broke my arm."

"Oh," they reply. "That sounds...not fun."

"It's wasn't," you murmur. "It wasn't fun."

They reach out to poke at the cast and you let them — normally you'd ask them to be more cautious but they're so light they couldn't cause any real harm. "Can I sign it?" they ask.

A little surprised — as no one's asked before — you reply, "Um, sure? I don't see why not."

Immediately they spring up. "What color should I sign it with?"

"Uhh, I don't know, that's up to you—"

"I'm thinking," Olive pouts their lips in thought, then ventures, "dark pink, orrrr maybe green. _Or_ I could maybe sign my name in pink then fill in the letters with green. Do you like dogs?"

"Well—"

"Oh, Olive!" Heavensent, Nessie comes into the living room with a tray of tea and cookies; she's surprised by the additional company, although not disgruntled. "I thought you were brushing your teeth. It's getting late."

Is it? A clock is conveniently place above your head so you crane your neck to see that through your haze of grief/lethargy, you've slept through dinner. That must've been impressive to see, considering how much noise the Woodies make during mealtimes.

And, looking out the window, you see that it's indeed pitch-black; it looks like Snufkin and Too-Ticky haven't returned yet. Now you're both disoriented _and_ alarmed.

"I wanted to meet Moomin," Olive says, hopping off your front and tumbling to the carpet to meet at Nessie's feet. "Mister Snufkin said not to bother him but that was only when he was in bed, and he's on the couch right now."

"Ah, I see," Nessie nods as she sets her tray atop the coffee table. She kneels down to smooth Olive's cream night gown and take their hands into hers. "Well, I'm glad that you're respectful of Moomin's space, but he could use some rest right now."

"I don't mind!" Both turn to you with different sets of curiosity, but you're truthful when you say it. "I'd...like having some company, and I'm plenty rested." A bit of a white lie on the last part, but Olive's eyes brighten at your approval. Even Nessie smiles.

"Olive, how about you go brush your teeth and then you can come back down to speak with Moomin," Nessie looks over to you as she adds, "If that's alright."

"It's fine with me," you reply.

Eagerly Olive runs off in the direction of their bedroom shared with their siblings. You watch them go but turn when you hear Nessie pouring a cup of tea.

"They're a quiet fellow, that Olive," she comments fondly. "I'm shocked you got them to speak at all, but I suppose they _have_ been dying to meet you."

"It seems so."

Nessie hands off a mug to you, and carefully you cusp it in your palm, bringing your knees up to support it. The sides of the cup are hot but not scalding, and you blow on it to cool before daring a sip. The taste would be better with sugar, but you don't want to have either you or Nessie going to the kitchen to retrieve it, so bitter tea it is.

"From the way Snufkin always talks about you, it's no wonder the Woodies all perceive you as a sort of hero," she continues. "They think you're fascinating."

At his mention, your mouth curls into a rotten frown — which _shouldn't_ be your reaction to thinking of Snufkin, but it makes you reconsider how deeply his words cut, and how vacant your chest feels now.

Nessie frowns, bending her eyes into concern. "I overheard what he said from the window," she murmurs, dancing along the words hesitantly like she's afraid to misstep. "That was no simple couples' quarrel, was it?"

You sigh into your tea, watching as your breath ripples along the amber drink. "I don't suppose he's talked to you about any of...what he thinks about me, truly. Has he?"

The answer is a nervous chuckle and flitting expression. "No, he frightens me a little. So I don't try to talk with him."

That's surprisingly fair. You tuck your knees in further. "I want him to trust me more," you try feebly. "And I wish he did, but— I can't go back in time to fix what I did. And I would if I could, but...it's too late. Now everything's ruined."

You bite your lips against the recollection of...not _good_ times, but concerning your relationship with Snufkin they were better times, and you cherished what you had with him during these limited months. "I don't know what he wants me to do — what _anyone_ wants me to do."

"You don't have to do anything but be yourself," Nessie assures, but this has you tightening your grip on the cup with impatience.

"But I'm _not_ myself!" you snap. "And I can't _be_ myself, and now—," you breathe out a humorless laugh, "now I have to pick up the pieces of what I did, and by extension what my father did too because I'm _still_ running from that, and..."

You trail off, and Nessie's hand rubs your shoulder calmly, yet conscientious. When you look at her she's set her teacup aside and now sits perched on the edge of the coffee table, looking sad.

"I haven't been...forthright about my past," she begins slowly. "But just know that I _do_ understand what it's like, the inner workings of the Mafia and its lasting affects. I was something of an escort for big rings to traffic drugs and alike." She suppresses a harsh shudder at some memory but her touch never wanes. "And...I never knew your papa personally, but I knew his gang through Kukkah, who helped me out of that life. She offered me a job working here and," she sighs, "it's hard, it really is, to keep going and act like things are fine when I did bad things — or forced to do bad things, more like. I still have to correct myself when I say it's all my fault."

You frown a little, but lean into her trembling hand and slowly untangle from your cramped posture. And you take a long sip of tea before responding softly, "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Thank you, Moomin," she says. "You saying that means a lot. It shows me you're not really like that...like your father, I mean. You're hardly cut out for this life."

You bitterly chuckle. "Well, here I am anyways."

"Yes, here you are," Nessie retracts only to pick up her cup, lifting her pinky before bringing the rim to her lips. "But whoever you decide to be outside of this, just know that I'm here to listen as you figure it out. I can't offer much, but I promise it _does_ help to talk. And I do know to an extent what it's like to feel trapped, so I'm happy to help with whatever I know."

"I know," you murmur, then look away. "I wish this never happened."

"It's hard, but you'll work it all out, Moomin. You'll be okay." With a tiny grin and a new twinkle in her gaze she adds, "Then you'll be free to help me with as much laundry as you like."

You laugh, feeling a tad better, and return to your drink. From outside, you see a shadow outlined against the night's palette skimming across your vision in the shape of what appears to be a vehicle. Your hopes soar a millisecond that they've returned, but then you notice that they don't have their headlights on.

"Moomin?" Nessie ventures, sounding uneasy as your eyes won't tear away from the window.

"Sorry, it's nothing, I just..."

The car appears to stop right outside the house and stays there; no one gets out or gets in, it just sits and watches. And call yourself paranoid, but in this moment you recall how they would often flick the lights off so you wouldn't see their faces, even when you were barely conscious. 

You hadn't realized that Nessie has aligned herself next to you so she can see what you're staring at, until a bright popping noise pierces through the window and she screams, clings to your arm and pulls you under.

A switch is turned here: glass breaks and you're able to understand these suffocating sounds as gunfire pelting through whatever open surface. Your arms fly up to cover your face, with steel bands coiling around your lungs and suddenly the world seems further away. Your transmissions of sense are tinned and distorted, panic bursting open from their stitchings within your gut.

Somehow you've managed to cradle yourself behind the sofa and you're able to place a steadying arm across Nessie, who's cornered herself beside you. Her frightened need to fiddle on her clothes' buttons and heavy, short breaths are very familiar to you so it's somehow grounding, even as the windows surrounding you continue to break open.

You're both shaking and quite far from reality when a harsh voice screams out from the doorframe, "Well, don't just _sit_ there!"

You turn and find Kukkah standing in the foyer leading out into the halls; her glare is wild but not exactly crazed, just radiating a rapid sense of urgency. She sweeps her arm over then points at her side: a gesture for you to join her.

Nessie movies first, and then yourself, feeling like your movements are pre-recorded in nature. The coffee table gives temporary shelter but more so for your partner given her smaller frame, so you just sink as low as you can into the carpeting. The texture is rough and gritty against your cheek — it's another thing that helps you feel and breathe in this moment. You have to cord your muscles like a cat waiting to pounce or else you run the risk of staying here forever.

Then you sprint over to Kukkah despite the unceasing rain of bullets, _somehow_ unscathed and able to scramble against the wall, with Nessie following suit. The cacophony of breaking glass stops, eventually, but with your lost track of time you don't know when or why. Dead quiet ensues; a breeze enters freely from the agape windows.

No one moves.

Enough silence passes so you can gain some bit of control over your thoughts falling over one another, just so you can stop thinking _fuckfuckfuck_ in rapid waves. You're still alarmed when Kukkah steps back out into the living room, her posture lowered with caution as she looks around.

"What are you doing??" you whisper to her through gritted teeth; it feels wrong to shout.

"Hush!" she snaps back, with the same volume. Her eyes aren't on you and the sides of her hair she doesn't commonly place into her bun (now completely skewed) blots her expression since her back is to you.

The sobs of the children wane from upstairs: another dire addition to this scene before you. Your mind is a treadmill, racing on high and yet going nowhere.

"Nessie!" Kukkah suddenly shouts over to where you both stand. "Love, go round up the Woodies and lock yourselves up in the basement. My backup pistol is on my nightstand, do you remember?"

Nessie blinks before nodding fiercely, her black hair further mussied from the motion and it spills over her face; you think that she looks haggard but you probably look so much worse.

"Moomin!"

"Y-yes?" Your voice is tiny and pathetically croaky.

"You're coming with me. I'm certain this raid is for your friends, if not just for you." Kukkah doesn't _say_ it as accusatory but more of a candid fact; still your body cringes against the idea.

"I-I—"

"To the kitchen," she orders; this is not the time nor place for debate so you're forced to follow along; your steps are clumsier as you mind the strewn glass about the room, with Kukkah gently picking her way around the debris in a similar, if not more poised, fashion. Nessie has sprinted in the opposite direction and you hear her footsteps storming up the stairs to assuage the wailing children.

Kukkah swings the kitchen door open and it almost hits your face; somehow you're able to conjecture any words at all: "So, wh-what do we—?"

She's not listening. You're left to duck behind the counters because you never realized how many _windows_ there are and how scary the outside is when it's nothing but blackness. You're hugging yourself, you realize, and have no idea when that started; your footsteps slug against the tile.

Ever-unfazed, Kukkah fishes through some drawers with her brows furrowed, clearly set on finding something. Useless as ever you crouch near where the sink is, feeling like your lungs are about to collapse.

"Thank _heavens_ homeowners covers this kind of shit," she says as she's stomping around the kitchen. "We've had pitiful attempts at hit-and-runs before but _this_ is just ridiculous. We'll be scouring the floor for _months_ searching for every bit of glass so the children won't get cut, puh. Unbelievable, the effort these bastards put into their work."

"I..."

"If they're that dedicated to terrorizing some mundane foster home then it must be a boring night indeed," she ignores you and clicks her tongue; she's still pawing through the drawers and _still_ acting so nonchalant about this all. "No, they're here to send a message. They're not done with us yet — or with you, I guess, if you'd like to believe your father's work was that impactful."

_Wasn't it though?_ You could comment that in a better circumstance, should you live through this one.

"Ah-ha!" Triumphantly Kukkah swings forth a pistol she's taken from a cabinet; you duck when it's aimed in your direction a moment as she switches the safety lock. When she's satisfied the weapon is tossed into your lap and you bite back a screech but shield yourself momentarily.

"Now, they're probably lurking outside," Kukkah continues, brisk. "If this was a simple robbery at this point they would've swept in the moment they shot our windows. No, this appears to be an act of intimidation or blackmail."

Then she points at the gun in your lap and then you. "Go to the backyard and have a look around. I'll check out the front where their car is parked. We'll meet up on the side of the house to where the compost is located."

Your brain is churning with alarm and dread and many many many other bad things, and you stutter with a squeak, " _Me???_ "

"Yes, you." Her brows wrinkle her forehead and she looks more exasperated than anything else. "Have I not made this clear enough because I'm certain this is a simple task."

"No— y-yes but— no, I mean—!" You make to stand; suddenly the exposed windows are the least of your worries. "You want _me_ to encounter them?? Why???"

"Well, putting it mildly, your friends _have_ gotten my children, my girlfriend, and myself involved in your debacle," she says. "So I expect you to fix it as best you can or I'll be forced to call the authorities, and none of us want that."

"But I..."

Kukkah bends down to grab the gun you've discarded once you stood, once again shoving it back into your clammy palms. It's cold, steel, unused, and it's chilling in your touch. Stiffly, you wrap your fingers and encase it in your hold, with uncertainty locking your joints in place.

"You're right-handed, correct?"

"Y-yes—"

"Perfect, so I expect no excuses." Then she's shoving you towards the backdoor that leads out into the darkened yard —an abyss of cloaked terrors that could grab at you with hungry, cruel hands without warning.

The night greets you with a nipping chill blown at your face, the songs of distant cicadas muting any potentially-telling snaps of twigs. You're deprived of safety, you're alone, and you're pushed outside with a gun and clipped, "Remember, meet me at the side of the house. If they shoot, shoot back."

"Kukkah, I _can't_ —"

"What's it going to take for you to realize?" she spits, swinging you around to face her. "You're just as equal as anyone else here, and those bumbling loons terrorizing an orphanage could care _less_ about what you're going through. This," she points to your cast, "means nothing to them, it means nothing to _me_ , and it _should_ mean nothing to you."

Your lips tighten and pull along the edges. Even though you're standing out here as an easy target and being chewed out about your waning self-esteem, it's...nice, being toted any sort of worth again. However rude it sounds coming from her.

Still, it's probably what you need to hear.

Before Kukkah slams (and locks) the door, she gives a _"удача, моосча"_ thrown over the shoulder.

And here you are again, abandoned and left for death. But even with all your remarkable flaws and wounds, you're determined. This isn't like back at the warehouse where you were left in a blank room and they came to you; now you've turned the table so it's hunter versus hunter. Equal playing grounds.

But it's a good idea to move, mind.

You duck into a nearby shrub to mask yourself against the back lighting, which has been giving away your position for a solid minute anyways. And so you strain your ears amidst the bugs for a listen, meanwhile checking your gun's ammo to see that it's full. 

You'd have much rather done copious amounts of housework to be entrusted with value again, but of course this is what has come, and so you're to do the best you can with what responsibility you're given.


	7. to wash the spot, to burn the snare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we remember that this is a mafia au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can confirm as the au creator that little my is probably a war criminal

It’s approximately five minutes of sulking in a bush that you realize this is all ridiculous and everything is dumb.

Sure, from an outsider’s perspective being allegedly stalked in the dark — presumably by your former captors, no less — is a harrowing experience, but it's been a minute since any real action has occurred, and frankly you’re bored. But you’re also stuck because the minute you stand you know there’ll be a bullet that aims bullseye at your forehead. And you would really, really rather not deal with any more major injuries to your part.

The gun is still heavy in your palms and you’ll never get acquainted with its presence; it’s always cold no matter how long you hold it. Although you haven’t seen much of Joxter’s gun since its debut in the alleyway, you don’t know how Snufkin has ever grown used to it hanging by his waist, waiting to explode.

All this further proves that Nessie was right — that you aren’t cut out for this life. Whether or not you deserve it is something else entirely.

You can’t find it in you to stand so you shuffle into the next lot over, where Kukkah’s garden lays. Some splinters of glass prick your palm and you stifle curses; meanwhile you crawl your way into some crops and be mindful of squashing any buried veggies with your knees.

_Nothing yet._

It’s unclear what Kukkah specifically desired when she wanted you to scour the area, but perhaps this is as good an all-clear as any — your vision has adjusted to the perpetual darkness that lay in front of you, and not an ounce of movement is to be seen.

Okay, to the side of the house, then.

The sooner you follow instructions the sooner this nightmare is over. Consarn it all, the one time you actually _want_ Little My to show up and start swinging her rifle around.

The leaves that crunch beneath your knees and hands sound earsplitting, no matter how meticulous you try to weave your way about them. For the time being you’ve hooked the gun rather carelessly around your belt loop, as there’s no other way to carry it — and since you haven't mastered the safety lock feature, your movements are frigid at the potency of you tugging around a literal landmine.

When you reach the corner of the house, caution be damned as you finally stand, taking up Kukkah’s pistol again and giving the yard one last once-over before you duck into the miniature alley.

“Kukkah?”

Your whisper carries and drifts into the wind, over the fence, and into the abyssal night, unanswered.

Great.

It’s astounding: you standing on one foot impatiently tapping your shoe, like your partner is only dawdling on her chores and this is a minor setback. Also present is the fear that she could be dead mere feet away and you just can’t see the body.

You make to call out again, louder.

Then a twig behind snaps.

It’s a little creature, it _has_ to be something like a squirrel, or even an acorn that’s fallen. That’s only your second instinct of thought, the next being an incoherent blaring of panic that swings you around and has you fumbling for the trigger even when you have no idea how to shoot but that’s fine, that’s fine just shoot and scream and it’ll be enough—

“Hi.”

You blink, nearly dropping the pistol in the process.

Olive, barefoot, is standing in front of you. They don’t even come up to your torso is a stray remark you have; their figure saturated in the faintest glow from the kitchen light around the corner, their gaze open and knuckles curling into their nightgown.

“Wh-what,” you have to remember to whisper, albeit perhaps a little harsh, “What are you doing out here??”

As if all the time in the world has been touted to them, they simply shrug. “I brushed my teeth and I wanna sign your cast. What are you doing out here? It’s really dark.”

“That’s because—” You look around for you both, considering that Olive is still rather loud and you don’t have a free hand to bring an index to your lips. “You can’t be out here! Did you not hear the gunshots?? You must go to Nessie at once!”

“Gunshots?”

“How did you not—?!”

“Mister Moomin, why do you have a gun?”

“I—” Feeling red-handed — you’re still aiming it in their direction — you attempt to tuck it behind your back. “You _have_ to go inside, please. It’s dangerous out here, we don’t know if—”

“Who’s behind you?”

Everything in your stomach drops. You faintly, _desperately_ , hope for the best. You want to see Kukkah when you turn. You want it to be Snufkin, even. You just want this to be over.

Over your shoulder, you see the makings of a physique that certainly does not match that of Kukkah. The night matches their suit and overstuffed coat, making it hard to encrypt any specific features. The shadows assist in painting their eyes black.

In spite of everything, somehow you manage the most pitiful, “Hello.”

“Drop the gun,” they says, coating over your greeting.

You experienced a similar phenomena before you threw Snufkin over those train tracks to spare his life and ruin yours — this feeling of displacement, like everything has been calculated accordingly and you’re a mere performer in a scene. There’s nothing here you’re capable of changing, you can only obey their commands and have this disengaged optimism that perhaps they’ll just shoot you and get it all over with.

You’re backing away, until you feel Olive pressing into the small of your back and peeking over curiously. Your hand falls onto their fluffed afro and stays there: a half-baked attempt of comfort.

It’s pathetic to ask what they want, because you kept asking that and they never responded. You’ve learned that negotiation is pointless and the ones holding the right cards are the only ones with a say, and you certainly don’t have that sort of luck.

Eventually, seemingly pleased with your submission, they step forward. You step back, again, and Olive makes a little noise as they tumble into your backside.

“You’ve some nerve to believe you can just waltz out on us like you did.”

When they — you assume he — speaks, it’s not downright malicious, but laced with etiquette — it's almost charismatic in its own way. Maybe because you’re used to being yelled at or talked down to by these anonymous goons and this is considered pacifying.

Your shoulders flop when you mumble, “I know.”

He considers your defeated murmur with only the slightest cock of his head; you still can’t tell what sentiments he’s portraying because of the dark. Still, he continues, “And yet you still run because you have nothing to offer to us — or you _think_ you don’t.”

This catches your attention. You furrow your brows a little. “So, what do you want, then?”

“Me in particular? I want this job over with,” he shrugs. “But it’s really the bigger families you need to keep an eye out for. Your old man swindled a lot of folks out of hard-earned cash and, well, some aren’t as forgiving about that.”

“We don’t have any money—”

“Oh, trust me, I know. We _all_ know what you and Joxter's kid have been doing. It’s pathetic, if you were to ask me. But,” he clicks his tongue, “no one is. _My_ job is to just get in and get out and that’s exactly what I plan to do now.”

There’s a tiny tug on your sleeve. You manage to peek down and see Olive staring up at you with big eyes. Somehow the gravity of the situation seems to have crept in while the man gave his sermon, because their fingers are pinching into your arm and you feel their little nail dig into the meat of your flesh.

“What are they talking about?” they whisper, with a voice very small and very thin.

You swallow hard, the dehydration in your throat escalating further down into your lungs.

“Moomin,” the man says your name and in his tongue it’s surprisingly quite nominal, maybe even upheld. “Why are you doing this? You already know you’re destined to fail. What more do you have left than to come with us?”

Your eyes widen. “I-I don’t—”

“Come on now, we aren’t disarrayed.” You think he’d roll his eyes here but you still can’t garner an expression from him. “Your capabilities are wasted on trying to be the innocent bystander — this is truly what you’re meant to do, is it not?” Another step forward, another step back. “If your father hadn’t been so spineless he’d still be in this line of work and you know that as well as I. You _know_ he’d have forced you into his footsteps, and you know you wouldn’t have said no.”

“That’s not…”

“You’re weak and you’re easily led, and you’re too damn kind. But with us, you’d be molded into something like your father: strong, bold, everything you looked up to but could never achieve.”

…You _did_ look up to that. How Pappa never seemed scared and embraced the unknown and how he was always excited at the idea of becoming something greater than himself. How discontent he was with sitting around, and how this was eventually passed down to you.

But on the other hand, seeing where that sort of craving had led him makes you retract; you used to admire your father but you can’t, and you certainly aren’t a damned thing like him. The only trait you have of him is your name, and even then when these men say it they don’t seem to be referring to _you_.

At your clear indisposition, he goes on. “We know we’ll never see any of what your father owes us in your lifetime, but as compensation,” he pauses, walking to meet his smaller acquaintance and one hand idly hanging from his coat pocket, “we’ll train you to do some of Moomin’s tasks, get you invested in that business. We lost a lot of members the day your father and his crew turned some of our men in, and we can’t hire any outside sources so the family branches won’t get tainted.”

(You had heard somewhere that mobs will only recruit familiar blood, so this all does make sense.)

You frown. “But I’m not _like_ my father. I can’t do any of that work without feeling…terrible. Um…no offense.”

“How many times must we repeat we don’t _care?_ ” The man snaps, jabbing a harsh forefinger at you; you don’t have to see him to know he’s glaring you down. “You are Moomin’s son, you have his blood and therefore you are _obligated_ to replace him. You gave up your freedom of choice the moment you were born as a mobster’s son — your friends too, especially Joxter’s boy. You _owe_ us.”

“This…” Again you swallow, looking at the ground beneath your feet like there’s an antidote there. “This was...never about money, then.”

“For the higher-ups, maybe. But they just enjoy keeping tabs on everyone,” he replies. “No, we’re giving you a peace offering. Your life, in exchange for everyone else you’ve ever known. Hell, we’ll drop fucking _Joxter’s son_ if you just come with us.”

Oh. It all rams at you at once, like a terrible car collision. A whirlwind of tremendous emotion lodges in your chest and suddenly the heart that wouldn’t stop beating out of your neck has stilled. It’s come to this. To sacrifice, again.

“B-but…why not ask me before you…”

Another scoff. “That wasn’t us. You think we’re the only group around here? No, in your perspective we’re the _good_ guys for letting you yap at us for this long.”

“I…I—”

“Moomin, stop fooling yourself into thinking you’re any better than this. You’ll do whatever we ask if it means your delinquent friends won’t get hurt. This has been — never _will_ be — about yourself.”

They’re not wrong. But the last time you’d given up yourself there were no benefits for anybody. It’s true that your waning sense of self is often tied to how much you’re willing to chip off and give to others, but that doesn’t feel right anymore, not after the extremities of your past decision. It doesn’t solve anything, especially not whatever your father did.

And so: “It’s not selfish of me to want a better life — not just for my friends, but for me.” You breathe in lightly, temporarily casting all lingering doubts from mind. “I’m not my father and I can’t replace him. I shouldn’t be _obligated_ to. Neither Snufkin nor I are responsible for whatever actions our parents done.”

He doesn’t so much as flinch, leaving you to finish.

“My answer is no,” you say, tone mild.

He stiffens his shoulders. “You’re making an awfully dangerous decision, you know.”

“I’m used to doing that…”

He hums. “There’s no pleasant outcome to anything you’ve just proposed, Moomin.” It’s a terrible jolt to hear your name once cushioned in polite demeanor now hollowed out. “You have three seconds to change your mind before you see the consequences of your selfishness.”

Then he grants you the most meaningless showcasing of guns he’s been hiding behind his own pockets, as if you hadn’t already spotted him toying with his belt in the same fashion Snufkin sometimes does. One thing to note is there’s nothing fancy or different about any revolvers; they all look the same to you.

You straighten up, somehow. “I’ve already made up my mind. I’m not going with you.”

And there’s no surprised pause or moment of reprieve. He just shrugs beneath his layered coats. “Suit yourself.”

Blind instincts kick in: whatever he has planned next isn’t _good_ , but there’s also a finite amount of options he could pull right now, lest he shoots you dead. Your friends aren’t here, the Woodies are hiding away somewhere, and all that’s left between a body and a bullet is you and…

Olive makes a loud gasp when the revolver is lowered to match their height.

“You know,” the man drawls, “Boss hates when kids are involved in the action. And I get that. But Boss isn’t here. So I’ll stand being knocked down a few pegs for this one.”

“No.” You push Olive back further despite their grunt of surprise, “ _No—!_ ”

The crack of gunfire is sharp like a whip against your already-overpriced senses, and you squeeze tighter into this defensive position you’ve coiled into in order to blot out every possible new wound or bad encounter. And then you hear your opponent fall to the ground with an unceremonious thump against the soil, and you realize then that you’re not the designated target.

From overhead, strangely, a voice puffs with impatience, “Well! Took him long enough to shut up.”

You straighten and gawk up to where you see the silhouette of Little My casually cross-legged on the edges of the roof tile, bored and fearless with one hand smushing her cheek. The expression she’s likely flaunting flashes in your mind like a memory: it’s one of poorly-smothered pride.

“ _My??_ ” Your words choke in the thickened air, discarding your previous vows to keep as silent as possible. You feel your hand is still splayed across Olive’s chest area, protectively.

Her snort is expected but so very, very welcome for once. “Hey.”

“I thought— why —how did you—??”

She hops up and, in a span of seconds, picks her way down a rainwater pipe and propels her way to you; her sniper's swinging a bit too loosely from the sash she keeps it tucked into. She crosses her arms in that signature stance, jutting out a hip.

“Maybe next time you go all damsel again, let me know in advance so I can have an early dessert,” she continues airily. “And to answer your question with a question: who the hell do you think I am, missing out on some action? It’s been so drab around here.”

Everything about what's occurring continues to be a disjointed mess, a conglomeration of everything you know and what you don’t know contradicting like you’re the running gag of one of Sniff’s early cartoon shows. And it all builds up into something recognizable: a darkened sense of humor. Your chest shakes with budding chuckles — if you went full-on laughter you’ll never be able to stop until you’re crying.

“Thank you, Prince My,” you manage after a moment, holding your torso with aches of amusement. You’re still grinning even when she’s giving you some Look again. “You’re my hero.”

“Thank you, Prince My,” a tiny voice behind you repeats and you nearly double-take because _Oh, yeah._

Little My beats you to it, straining her neck right over to here you’re sheltering Olive from the unconscious body. Her glare morphs into pure disbelief: a rare look to receive from her. “You brought out a _Woodie???_ Moomin, are you _dense??_ ”

“I-I didn’t!” you protest, regaining composure, then slowly coax Olive out of their hiding place for semi-proper introductions. “Olive followed me out! Everyone else is hidden away, I swear! They just…slipped under the radar.”

With the skill of attention-hopping that only a child could maintain, Olive bluntly asks, “Are they dead?” They point down to the man right behind Little My’s boot. She swivels her heel to give a rude glance downward.

“Nah, he shouldn’t be unless he’s a runt,” she sniffs. “I tried to go for a non-fatal approach in my aim, since you’d probably chew me out if we had to dispose of his corpse and all — also I’d miss dessert if we did that.”

Your frown digs into your right cheek. “So, you hit…where?”

“The ankle,” she bends her knee back in order to point out the precise location. “Or I tried to, anyway. It’s somewhere in the leg. Maybe the thigh.”

“I ate a piece of gum once,” Olive intercepts. “Rose says it’ll be in my stomach for the next seven years.”

“Isn’t that fascinating,” you murmur absently, rubbing a hand into your face. Every interjection of this scene provides you with more and more exhaustion, bookended by that dispelling anxiety and forthcoming headache. This should not be happening, in any aspect; and here you are, sheltering a Woodie from a potentially-fatal accident as Little My swings about her gun like it’s no skin off her bones she’s shot a man.

But, to your relief and dread, the man shutters back into consciousness with pained groans; you watch him feebly attempt to stand like a wounded animal, and Little My cruelly clicks her tongue.

“Well, looks like the pain of an ankle biting was enough to knock him out,” she remarks. “What a pansy.”

You can’t share this same sort of mockery when the man twists his head back around to face you, sharply and with the last ounce of strength he seems to be carrying. He hisses through garbled teeth, “Fine then. Keep your ‘freedom’, see how far that gets you without our help.”

It returns, this abstract unnease that clips your mouth into trembles, “I…”

Again he tries to stumble to his feet but fails, and all of you just watch because he’s no real threat anymore, not in these conditions. But his tone is as direct and sharp as his gun: “You’re delaying the inevitable, you and Joxter’s kid. He’s just…” He coughs and it’s so wet you’re glad you can’t see his face here, “He’s just dragging you in circles and locked you into his schemes. And you’ll cling to _him_ , gods knows why.”

“Stop it,” you manage.

“What makes him any different from us—?”

Little My smacks the man with the butt end of her sniper and it’s a sickening noise that’s too fleshy and hard; he falls back down with his face flat in the dirt and you exclaim, “Little My!!”

“What? He was getting on my nerves!” she scoffs, adjusting her weapon with a hand still on her hip. “Boo hoo, I’m sad because I’ve been defeated by a wee girl and now I gotta give a sad vengeful monologue — blah blah blah.”

“I…suppose,” you try, “but it’s still unkind.”

“So is shooting up a home with children, Moomin,” My replies evenly.

You don’t comment that you wanted to hear what else he had to say; because he was on some sort of spiel that resonated a bit too heavily with you, and it’s grating uncomfortably against your temples. He was speaking an abject fear only you knew of, and even then you haven’t the time to give it a name.

How Snufkin doesn’t know any better than you, yet you still hold his doctrines up on this pedestal because you feel you owe him that much.

…It’s a hard pain to pin down. Not everything feels definable by something else, after all.

“And what now?” you say aloud, not expecting an answer.

Yet Little My attempts one, because ‘I don’t know’ has never been in her vocabulary. “Now we drag him back over to the car and we start it up and push it into the nearest river.”

You sputter. “No!!”

“Why not? He’ll be of more use to us dead anyways!”

“Because that’s not—!”

“OLIVE! What in the blazes are you doing outside?!”

Now everyone turns their heads to the newcomer, being (thankfully) Kukkah that looks to be in disarray and her wild eyes are fixated on Olive sheepishly peeking their head out. When they catch sight of their mother all fears are forgotten as they happily cry, “Mama!”

“Don’t ‘mama’ me!” She snaps, but her tone is more compounded by worry than you’ve ever heard. “Did you not hear Nessie instruct that you stay inside! Do you realize that you could have been hurt??”

You pat Olive’s head almost in assurance. “They were just following me outside,” you intercept. “It wasn’t their fault— I should have made sure that I wasn’t being followed anyway.”

Kukkah gives you a long, piercing stare, but with her figure being illuminated by a nearby porchlight on her side of the house, you wait her watch her face, strangely, soften. Like you’re on the same grounds of understanding for the first time since your encounter.

She’s an odd character.

“Nice catch,” Little My comments, and you see her pointing to something your brain didn’t even register — Kukkah holding another man by the ankles and having dragged him over to your spot in the alleyway.

“What—?”

“He had an accomplice,” she explains. “He was rounding the side of the house and I caught him with my pistol—”

“And you shot him,” you finish with a loud exhale.

She looks at you in bafflement. “No? I beat him on the side of the head with my revolver.”

“Mama is really strong,” Olive speaks up, looking back up at you with an awestruck gaze. “One time she picked up an entire crate of vegetables and put them on a really high shelf.”

“Okay,” you reply at length.

“I still stand by us pummeling them all into the river,” Little My interferes. “I know where we can find concrete boots to tie their feet to.”

“There’s an idea,” Kukkah concurs. “A ridiculous idea, but an idea nonetheless.”

“No.” Both girls look over with surprise when your firm voice echoes along the walls. But you stand firm and shake your head. “No, absolutely not. There’s too much at stake in we do that — and it’s not _right,_ I don’t care what they’ve done. They don’t deserve to perish.”

Silence for a tick, before Kukkah asks with an atypically gentle voice, “So what do you suggest?”

Everyone looks at you expectantly.

“We…” You hesitate, but you can’t deny the bright swell of confidence that arrives with feeling listened to. “We let them go.”

Neither speak up, even with Little My’s offended eyes being the size of dinner plates.

“We let them go,” you repeat, “and let them return to whomever they work for, and report that should they try this again they’ll be met with the same results.”

Little My and Kukkah exchange a glance, both appearing unsure.

“We know their license plates,” you continue hastily, “and we know what they look like! So we can threaten them with that knowledge if we have to, you know? It’s…better than nothing. I’m fine with blackmail so long as no one has to be plunged into the river.”

“I did write down their license plate,” Kukkah nods, and then her expression folds into compliance. She gestures for Olive to join her at her side and they do so, sprinting over and avoiding the unconscious mobster to hug her waist. She places an arm around them, with the other still occupied with her catch. "And lest we want the police to be investigating you folks, we should attempt to tidy up whatever we can without adding more assaults to your record."

“Ugh, _fine!_ ” Little My throws her head back dramatically. “I _guess_ this is better than murder.”

“I just don’t want us to get in trouble,” you explain, right as Little My walks over to give you a playful sort of punch on the arm, and you see now that her grimace is only a forefront.

“Whatever _Moomee,_ you big sap,” she teases, and you go red at the nickname. She swivels back around before you can get offended to her face. “So! We wait for them to wake up and then we threaten them? I’m into it.” She smacks her fist into her palm, her smirk returning. “I’ve been dying to sharpen up on my Chinese torture methods.”

“No torture!” you argue.

“If you say so,” she shrugs, clearly disinterested in your input.

Kukkah swings Olive up into her hold with one arm, then says, “Olive, please say thank you to Moomin for keeping you safe.”

“Thank you, Moomin,” they parrot.

You just nod, and Kukkah nods back before she sets down her hold of the mobster to cradle Olive with both arms and going around the bend to the entryway, taking them back inside to Nessie and the other Woodies.

You’re left alone with two half-dead men and Little My. And you’re not surprised anymore.

She wastes no time in tying up her catch with some rope she’s snagged from her satchel of boundless secrecies, and you let her take the wheel on this one as you lean against the wall and regain some composure. You haven’t been this active in days, and it’s done a heavy number on your heart rate; but your injured arm is only an echo, barely registered throughout the ordeal.

You cross your arms (as best you can with a cast, anyway), and stare blankly ahead as Little My continues her play.

_What makes him any different from us?_

The more you chew on his wheezed, half-delirious words, the more you can interpret on how they made you feel. It was…like pulling the curtains back on something you didn’t realize had curtains in the first place. It was vulnerable and gross but intriguing. Mamma says a lot of accusation has just enough truth in them to leave you sour.

You aren’t supposed to feel like this. You aren’t supposed to feel that acidic taste of betrayal and loose anger after an encounter with a villain, and have that emotion instead aimed at a lover who’s not even present.

You hop off the wall before the feeling swallows you whole, and turn to help Little My lift up the men and carry them to the shed.


	8. think: room to breathe, or finally breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which some loose ends are tied, and others aren't

Obviously the men were distraught when they awoke with a bucket of ice-cold water looming over their heads and with you yelling that Little My _do NOT water torture them_. But they were wise enough to understand their compromised situation and quickly complied with any demands you had — which wasn't as many as they presumed. 

You bandaged up the man's ankle so he wouldn't bleed out on the drive back and refrained from giving the other tea for his headache, given how Little My was already reaching her breaking point with your extended kindness. Which is fair; your reservoir of empathy is quickly running dry the longer this night stretches. Their expressions remain gruff as you aided them, until eventually you parted ways after Kukkah threatened them very colorfully how she _will_ call the cops next time and they better 'lawyer up' the next time they try this charade again.

Maybe that solved nothing and you'll be back to square one within a week; maybe they'll come back with more men or maybe they won't return at all.

...Either way, you're exhausted and the bed that you're been imprisoned in this past month or so has never been so enticing.

When you head back inside, you see Olive being confronted by a shroud of Woodies, with the tallest of them, Rose, cupping their face and lecturing them sternly as though he's a parental figure. They seem unfazed by the attention and the Woodies, by extension, are all relatively shaken but in a similar state of nonchalance. They all turn to you in wonder and soon there are many new requests that your cast may be signed in the morning. Overhead, you spot a trembling but present smile from Nessie directed your way as she leads the children back upstairs. Kukkah vows to deal with the damage tomorrow and that all Woodies must refrain from stepping into the living room or kitchen without shoes.

Time provides its own remedy to tonight's events, with everyone equally in a state that demands rest; tomorrow will be tackled with much more vigor, so for now the war zone of the foster home feels reposeful.

Too-Ticky and Snufkin still haven't returned.

With the Woodies being tucked into bed and coddled for stray anxiety attacks, you and Little My elect to stay up on the rooftop like guards; you make a game out of naming specific cars and crossing your fingers that they're just uninterested passersby, or best-case your friends returning — but all just drive past, uninterested in the chaos littering the front yard.

Little My breaks out a pack of pop she'd stolen from the kitchen; she hands a can over to you and you clink drinks with a shared mutter of, "Cheers."

The fizz and citrus flavor does reviving your sore insides a little, but the caffeine does nothing but keep your mind racing. Your fingers pound in an unsteady rhythm against the roof tiles and you take feverish sips of the drink until Little My notices.

She plops her half-empty can by her side and unstraps the rifle from her back so she can stretch out and stare up at the stars. You follow her lead. "Well, now you know you're not as inadequate as you think, cast or not," Little My comments to the sky; her voice is ever-playful but there's something fond under wraps too, should you strain.

You half-laugh. "Maybe."

"At least if those bastards come back around they'll know we'll put up a fight," she goes on. "Too-Ticky and Snufkin are going to be so upset when they hear all that they've missed!"

Your stomach begins to sour again; the tang of the pop doesn't help. Little My notes your lack of response and braces herself up onto her elbows so she can glare down at you.

"Moomin, I'm going to ask this once, and you better respond honestly or we'll have wasted everyone's time, but," she takes a deep breath, like it pains her to ask: "Are you going to be okay?"

You tightly purse your lips.

You're _not_ okay, honestly; you haven't been okay in a while and that was before Snufkin came into your life. It was just little things that snowballed into a bigger, more daunting picture: from cruddy townspeople to this insistence that you smile and be kind no matter the circumstance, and Snorkmaiden's breakup and your awakenings about men and women and your stance on sex, feeling incompetent compared to your parents...they were all such little things, but you still reflect on them out here. And you think you were honest that day you told Snufkin you weren't happy.

But there's no way you'll spend the rest of your days not being okay; after all that's happened the last thing you want to be is a sobstory. You have to believe you're still wanted and loved, and that these broken bones will heal, and that there’s an end to this. Maybe bits of this unpleasantness will stick forever, you don't know. But that's the thing: you'll just have to wait and see.

So you answer, "I think so. Eventually."

Little My looks content with this; she plots herself back down and you spend the next while in silence: a first from you both. Abovehead the veins of starlight wink into view, as distant as the cars below.

-

They return a couple of minutes past two in the morning; both are disheveled and sweaty from their layered apparel, but other than that you spot no limps or scratches. They're also in clear horror at the state of the home.

Nessie offers a cup of chamomile as she wearily runs down the events of the night; Too-Ticky has splayed herself into a chair and coolly slurps up her tea, whilst Snufkin has made a beeline for your torso and hasn't planned to release you since, with his face buried right under your chin and you keep him there. His hands claw into the back of your shirt with fidgety fingers that he doesn't attempt to settle. Temporarily all anger is discarded.

Once they're updated and everyone has seated themselves at the table, Too-Ticky relays their own expedition: there _was_ a dodgy group of men in the warehouse exchanging items (drugs and weapons) but as far as they could find it wasn't a meeting for any large syndicates, just men in lower positions getting some cash in their pockets.

"So no big shootouts, then," you reckon, to which Too-Ticky shook her head.

"Not this time," she replies. "But it's still good information to have — there's definitely an underground system that we haven't unearthed yet. It's quite interestin', how structured it all is."

Snufkin perks up from where he's still leaning into your stomach; you've adjusted himself in your lap since he refuses to sit in a chair alongside the others. "But we don't know where else they're hiding out," he asserts, "or where we can go that isn't under their radars."

"Unfortunately, unless you commit yourself into that lifestyle I don't know how much else you can learn that isn't surface-level knowledge," Nessie says over her cup. “I'd say you could pull the hereditary card, knowing your fathers and all, but it'd be a flip of the coin on whether or not some groups would want to let you in or just beat you on sight for even mentioning the Oshun Oxtra."

You sigh. _Thanks, Pappa._ "Nessie, I know you might not want to discuss your affiliations, but is there any advice on how to approach specific syndicates?"

Surprisingly, she appears solemn and not at all perturbed. "Outside of just not approaching them? I don't know, Moomin, I wasn't in any position to delve into mobster secrets — I _do_ know there's different levels of power and a selection of jobs for each branch. But as far as getting in...they were very nitpicky about whom they selected into their party. And like I said, the Oshun Oxtra is a gang with a lot of severed ties. If there _are_ any allies I haven't encountered them."

"So," you drawl on time, thoughtful, "what should our next course of action be?"

"Well, it depends," Too-Ticky says. "Do we want to try n' pay off yer pursuers regardless, or should we keep country-hopping till we stumble across a solution?"

 _If there's any solution_ hangs in the air unsaid, but still heard by everyone in attendance. Kukkah, Nessie, and your partners simmer with that lingering unease; if Little My weren't still keeping watch she'd probably break the quiet, but she's not here and so it continues uninterrupted.

"...Let's wait a while longer before we make any decisions," you decide at last. "We will _eventually_ have to leave; I don't want any more Woodies being put in danger because more mobs are on our trails." Kukkah nods in agreement. "And...as much as I hate to say it, we should wait until my arm is better before we start cornering men on the streets or anything."

Your proposal settles in, with some stray murmurs here and there in contemplation. Then you feel Snufkin in your hold lower his hands to rub against your right arm, lost in a sort of trance before he murmurs aloud, "I'm fine with that."

You curl your arm across his waist and pull him closer gratefully; you rest your nose into his hair and relish that there's not a drop of blood caking his features. Eventually the other members at the table come to a similar conclusion that the main objective is to clean the house, and then get you back on the road; this location is compromised.

Once the lights are off and everyone finds a place to rest (with Too-Ticky and Little My on watch outside somewhere, Kukkah by the backdoor, and Nessie upstairs with the children), you and Snufkin claim the couch since it'd be too bothersome to trample downstairs and wake the Woodies, should the girls need your help again. You're tired, but sleep doesn't come; you stare parallel at the television that's not on, with your partners walking around outside being the only provided ambience.

Snufkin's eyes are heavy so you've slung a blanket over him as he lies on the couch, still in his day clothes.

"Moomin," he says after a while.

"Yes?"

"I..." He dances his fingers along the wool texture of the quilt, furiously clenching and unclenching. "I want to apologize for being so cruel earlier. What I said was...out of line, putting it mildly. I don't think you're useless."

You think he's going to say more — there _should_ be more — but he doesn't. He just reaches for your hand and thumbs at your knuckles until you reach back. You still fall into that hope that he'll elaborate, but then Snufkin rises up and plants a long kiss on your cheek.

"I love you," he says, like it's a bandage for everything.

"I love you too," is the automated reply.

He smiles a little, then sinks back into the cushions and evens out his breath. He's still holding your hand in sleep.

You're left pushing down all the nasty things you wish to scream at this moment, but if you do that everyone in the house will wake and you'll have to explain why you feel so, so unbearably rotten. Why your hand feels encased in metal in Snufkin's hold.

And now you're alone, thinking of the future and all the unknowns in it, and it's terrifying. But you remember what you said to Little My, how eventually you're going to find room to be okay. Maybe these little sparks of want can hold something of value in the end; maybe you just need to find those small moments of hope, like when you were smaller and the world was a bit more comprehensible.

But none of this can be solved tonight.

Soon after this revelation, you fall to Snufkin's side and sink your face into the crook of his neck. The wind through the windows is chilly and you hear the girls chatting somewhere outside, and you adjust to your partner's breathing patterns to find something that can hold you over for now.

-

The numbers are engraved in your memory so unless they've found the time to change it after twenty-something years, you know what you're going to receive on the other end of the line.

The phone rings for a while; you clutch the cord around your purpled fingertips, squeezing tightly and glancing over your shoulder even though Kukkah promised you some time alone.

"Hello, this is the Moomin residence. May I ask who's speaking?"

You inhale, swallowing the air with a gulp; you fall into a nearby stool with this old rage and older love cramming together, until you recenter long enough with a shaky, sorrowful laugh.

"Hi, Mamma."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm starting a patreon and for every dollar i'll shut up about this au
> 
> my tumblr is honeyhedge - chat about how much u wanna kick Mafia!Snufkin’s ass with me !


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